Legacy of the Precursors (Revised Edition)
by DrakeTheTraveller
Summary: A legacy is what man leaves behind, the culmination of past deeds laid down at his feet for those who come after. Noble Six walks in the footsteps of his predecessors, peerless warriors and tacticians. As a spartan, war is his birthright. As a man he has nothing to call his own, no legacy to his name. But after Reach's fall, he discovers just what inheritance he will leave behind.
1. Not an End

_So… this is it._

Great plumes of virulent, blackened smoke darkened the sky. The source of this flourishing biome of poisoned fog lay in the rampant fires that consumed great swaths of forestland in the distance, kilometers away from the barren plateau of the Aszod shipbreaking yard. Even further into the distance, past an endless wasteland of perpetual devastation, lay the blazing wreckage of a once great city, its towers long since reduced to molten cinders, the bones of its residents smoldering slag in the wake of callous devastation.

Reach, the last, greatest, bastion of mankind, had been sundered by the overwhelming might of alien hatred and religious fervor.

Noble Six, seated within the magnetic accelerator cannon that had saved not just a halcyon cruiser, but the hope for a human future, at least as he understood it, gazed up into a sky no longer made sovereign by mankind. Their claim had been usurped, and they were left with less than nothing, just the shattered hulks of broken starships and the fractured skeleton of a once indomitable orbital defense grid

His stargazing, an idle activity led on by the finality of his existence, had been obstructed as his visor polarized, his indolent focus drawn now by the detonation of something in low atmosphere. The blinding flash, mitigated by his VISR, allowed him to peer into the active corona of a dying starship. He then watched, in numb apathy, as the last UNSC ship, the mighty _Trafalgar_, was split from stem to stern by a lance of projected energy jutting from the prow of a colossal Covenant warship. The supercarrier, once the pride of the Epsilon Eridani fleet, and the heart of Reach's defense, was torn apart by a cascade of rapid detonations originating from deep within its hull, likely the cook-off of stored munitions, Noble Six theorized as he watched the ship begin its slow, but inevitable orbital decline.

The spartan calculated the seconds, an offhand project fueled by his dispiritedness, his count reaching twenty-three before the shockwave hit. He felt the force, even from the surface, as the wave of sound crashed into him, pushing him into the cushioned upholstery of the operating chair. The unclasped buckles of his seat fluttered in the stirred winds and upturned grit of the desert sands.

A whirlwind of debris fell upon the plateau in a heavy blanket thick enough to darken the light from the local star, his shields erupting into a flaring collage of golden colors under the barrage of loose stones and dirt. He endured the assault in silence, letting the environmental fury wash over him as his thoughts wandered, aimless and without bearing.

He was going to die here.

There was no use in entertaining any other possibility, and he had no desire to ignore the obvious inevitability of his situation. He had no means to make it off planet, and even if he did he'd be killed before he could even escape the atmosphere. The surface was swarming with legions of Covenant infantry, and entire continents had already been cleansed by the fleet in orbit. He doubted it would be long before their plasma projectors were turned towards this place. For the first time in his career, Noble Six was entirely out of options. Nothing he could do would get him out of this one alive. For once his brute strength and martial cunning would not afford him the means of survival.

A small, infinitesimal part of the spartan, wondered that even if he had the opportunity, would he take it? Survival had never really been a primary concern for him. As far as he was concerned, he had no greater expectations than what was right here, in this very moment as he looked out upon a burning world once more revealed as the dust settled. If this was to be his final hours, his last moments as a human being, then so be it. This was always the way it was going to be, and he was honestly surprised that it had taken this long. His only concern was on how many of these alien monsters he could take out with him before he punched out. After all, even if this was to be his end, he would not go quietly.

This time, there was nothing left to hold him back.

Something closely akin to a sigh slipped past his lips as he slowly rose from the operator's chair of the cannon, once a device of menial labor, used to eject the unsalvageable refuse of decommissioned ships from Reach's surface, had been appropriated for noble purpose before its end, responsible for the destruction of not only eight phantom dropships, but two Covenant corvettes.

He brushed a gauntlet across the metallic finish of the command console, a terse nod of appreciation passing through him as he jumped down to the gantry below. His boots made contact with the metal walkway with a deep _clang _that reverberated through the floor as he spent a moment to adjust himself, taking stock of the inventory that he'd need for his final push.

Out in the distance he could see the sloping profiles of several ships as they approached Aszod, no doubt drawn by the recent battle that had taken place. He counted four phantoms, and after a quick calculation, factored the chances of success against a platoon's worth of Covenant infantry.

The number 14 stared mockingly at him from his HUD's ammunition counter, and he looked down to the MA37 rifle in his hands, the weapon nearly as battered and scarred as the armor of its wielder. A glance further down revealed the barren magnetic holster where his sidearm should be, and the faintest trace of a frown crossed his face. The fight to secure the MAC emplacement has been fierce and brutal, leaving him in his current predicament with little means of maintaining a ranged offensive.

_Just have to make it count. _He decided as he ejected the magazine, examined the brass cartridges within, and slapped it back into place.

Musing on his plan of attack, the spartan was momentarily surprised when a friendly IFF pinged his nav system. A waypoint appeared in front of his vision, the blue arrow situated somewhere down a flight of steps to his left. Almost entirely confident in the fact he was the last human left alive on this planet, but seeing no reason to decline solving this peculiarity, Noble Six decided to humor himself and followed the marker, taking the stairs down to the lowest level of the construction gantry. Underneath the crenelated boardwalk of iron girders below the MAC cannon, he passed a string of broken corpses, the shredded forms of the Covenant's elite infantry intermixed with the heaps of dead that were little more than chaff to the alien empire's unrelenting military machine.

Kicking the bullet riddled corpse of a grunt off the walkway during his idle inspection, he paused, surprised at the revealed source of the IFF marker.

The spartan slowly moved to the figure hunched against the wall, coming to a soft kneeling position beside the armored form arched against the rock face pressed against the gantry. Noble four, despite all expectations, was not dead. Having written him off the moment the elite's plasma sword punched through his breastplate, Six was astonished to see that Emile was still alive… for the most part.

"Glad…" The other spartan-III coughed violently, a shudder wracking his frame as he struggled to speak. "Glad to see you made it to the party." His inflection was wet and ridden with airless gasps, bereft of the usual roughened wit so synonymous with his name. Six did not need to see the man's face to know the truth. The center of his breastplate had caved in, the rim of torn metal still a dull cherry red from the confined plasma that had cleaved effortlessly through the heavy titanium armor. Blood pooled around his legs, the crimson fluid taking a slight bluish hue from the amalgamated hydrostatic gel that oozed from the gashes in his suit.

Noble Four was a man not long for this world, and no manner of battlefield first aid could change that. It was a miracle that he had survived this long, and still been able to fight; judging from the bodies around him that Six knew had not been there before he manned the surface MAC. If anything, it spoke of the true tenacity of the man before him.

The spartan nodded to his squadmate, the can of biofoam in his hand slowly returning into one of the kevlar pouches sewn in his supply vest. _"Wouldn't have missed it."_ He chuckled softly as he set himself down next to Noble Four, his armored bulk hitting the ground heavily. The man let loose a substantial sigh as he turned his gaze out into the ashen sky of the doomed world they had all fought so hard to defend. He would not have to wait much longer, and the spartan decided there was little reason to concern himself with the inevitable.

The inescapability of his demise was, in a way, somewhat of a liberating sensation. There was no reason to dwell on a future he would not be part of, no point on thrashing against the certainty of the path ahead of him. And that allowed Six to, for the first time in his career, practice the freedom of acceptance, to embrace fate on his own terms.

He only found it unfortunate that it would be a singular experience. His death would be the first, and last, thing he could call his own.

"One hell of a show, ain't it?" Noble Four asked quietly, the tenuous strength in his voice fading as he also partook in observance of Reach's broken skyline, populous as it was by the invading craft of a merciless alien empire. The Covenant armada clouded above the fallen world, uncountable in number, a matchless horde immune to any human opposition. They had won this day, struck a devastating, perhaps irrecoverable blow against the forces of mankind, but not without sacrifice. The Covenant had bled heavily for their victory, deeper than any battle previous. The wreckage of their warships littered orbit in the hundreds, and their armies had been blunted by the tenacity of human perseverance.

The fall of Reach would not go forgotten, not by mankind, nor her enemies.

Dwelling upon such musings, Noble Six nodded silently in agreement.

It was indeed one hell of a show.

"Do you….."

A long pause of silence stretched between them, and Six's expression hardened, softening only when Emiel's voice came back, cold and tired.

"Do you think…. do you think they'll remember us?"

The spartan thought deeply upon Emile's words, upon the unrecognized nature of their innumerable heroics, and the hopelessness of their cause, even as the IFF flickered into nonexistence, and the steps above him thundered with the marching force of a ravening horde of spiteful aliens, vying for human blood.

So it was, that Spartan B312 came upon his answer as the first elite charged down the stairs, its head snapping back as a flurry of bullets scythed through its shields and blew out the back of its skull. As the alien leading the advance tumbled down the steps, the warrior behind it, bedecked in bright crimson armor, let loose an infuriated roar as it sprayed the gantry with a fusillade of blue energy.

The empty rifle that was launched across the expanse and cracked against its skull, hit with enough force to shatter its shield. And before it could grunt in surprised exclamation, an armored fist punched through its throat. Shattered teeth clattered onto the spartan's bulky vambrace as he pushed up the stairs, dragging the alien at his forefront, the hulking saurian choking on its own blood in the process. Several plasma bolts struck the back of the elite before it made contact with the next alien in line, who crumbled as a knife was buried to the hilt in its forehead.

Stringing himself seamlessly into his next action, the spartan rolled over the spent bodies of his adversaries, retrieving the discarded weapons of the fallen as he spun across the floor, his spinal plate skidding off the ground as he unloaded the dual plasma rifles, the enemy retaliation that tracked after him leaving molten craters in the corrugated walkway. The preceding exchange of weapons fire as he vaulted into the fray, dropped his shields by several percent, but gave him the push he needed to close with his enemy. Here, in the blood-soaked brutality of close quarters, was an environment in which B312 excelled.

Burning sapphire bolts splashed against his towering physique as he weathered the alien barrage. The pair of stolen sangheili weaponry clutched tight in his gauntlets, thundered in return with twice the ferocity.

The fury of both, aimed against a singular target, was more than enough to overload his opponent's shield. The sangheili officer, its armor once a pristine silvered hue, withered under the fusillade, rivulets of molten metal running down its form as it was thrown upon its back by the violence of his guns.

The blue bar above the spartan's HUD, rapidly in decline since the onset of the engagement, finally emptied beneath the wealth of directed energy arrayed against him. A loud snap struck his hearing, as his shields flared mightily before vanishing in a cloud of dispersed particles. His helmet ringing with alarms, Noble Six threw himself forwards, into the rushing figure of a charging elite in dark blue armor.

The two combatants clashed with the deep reverberation of metal striking metal, and the sangheili barked a surprised exclamation as half a ton of spartan crashed into its chest. The human supersoldier ended its surprise abruptly, ramming his combat knife into its upper palate and out the top of its skull. In the same motion, with his free hand, the spartan rifled with the waist belt of its combat harness. The spartan's gesticulation fluid and coordinated; he curled an arm across its torso and dropped once more to the floor. Flipping the corpse over his chest, and utilizing the inertia he had gathered, the supersoldier hurled it a full eight meters across the platform that had devolved into an open warzone.

The dead alien flopped loudly against the gantry, the clatter of armored plates drawing the attention of the squad of Covenant infantry that had been, until that moment, charging down the steps to enter the battle, a ragtag mix of species that usually formed the expendable vanguard for Covenant armies.

The creature at the forefront, an increasingly startled kig-yar, glanced down to the body at the bottom of the steps, although its eyes were more so drawn to the cluster of glowing orbs attached to its belt.

Before it could react, the jackal, and everything in a five meter radius around it, was consumed in a swirling conflagration of molten plasma. Searing light emanated from the heart of the discharge, bearing an intensity rivaling the initial flash of a nuclear detonation.

The spartan's visor polarized, and he reaffirmed his grasp upon the combat knife as he bounded into action under the cover of the fallout. He could feel the faint heat left in the wake of the makeshift bomb, could smell the odor of sweat and blood lingering within the confines of his helmet, sensations that stirred old, unpleasant memories inside the spartan. And in that moment he recalled so many things that he struggled endlessly to contain under his awareness, what he had lost, and what had been taken. The ensuing attempt to banish the tide of thought and remain focused was futile, and a familiar, dark rage overcame him.

The Covenant soldiers blindsided by the explosion attempted to recover their wits amidst their disorientation, only to find that death had come to reap its vengeance. Noble Six was as a wraith amongst them, gliding across the platform with augmented lethality and grace, his combat knife flashing violently as it glinted in the sunlight, delivering the freedom of release upon the creatures that had destroyed everything he had ever loved, empowered by the singular drive to kill. Fountains of arterial spray and inhuman cries of pain were ousted upon the open air as cold steel parted both flesh and armor with equal ease.

The satisfaction that seized its hold over him as he butchered the foes of mankind was… euphoric.

All the fragments of personality left in the wake of his training, all his memories, all his fears and anger, all the dreams and youthful aspirations that had died the day his planet did, everything that made him what he had become, was honed for this express purpose. The entirety of his being existed for the sole purpose of inflicting grievance upon the enemies of man. This was his retribution, and once more he raged at the austerity of his providence.

He gave no consideration to any weapon other than the blade, no care for higher cognition or tactical reasoning. A gun could not offer to him the same gratification as he carved his knife deep into the toughened hide of a squealing unggoy. The utterance of primal agony that tore through the rawness of its esophagus as his weapon bit deep… that… was something he could only produce with the intimacy of a blade. Yet, even as he took pleasure in its suffering, he was not entirely without clemency. His gauntlet enfolded over its breathing apparatus, moments before he ripped the mask from its face, the breathing tubes spewing the sour stench of methane into open air. He therein left the creature to die, whether from asphyxiation or the gaping wound in its torso, he cared little, only that its end was brought upon in ignoble sufferance.

For him, that was an unusual act of kindness.

His next target was a kig-yar, the alien hiding behind its energy phalanx, raptorial eyes wild and panicked, hunting, searching for some means to escape the slaughter. None was provided as the spartan's greave lanced forward, shattering its defense, as well as its forearm. He dashed in close, the edge of his knife glancing off its beak before plunging deep into the sickly yellow gleam of its left eye. Its death was lenient in that it was short, if not brutal, as the avian creature shuddered before becoming limp against his torso.

The spartan flung its spent form from his body in disgust, his anger burning hot and potent inside him. More voices entered the fray, another contingent of alien warriors honing in upon the sounds of combat. This group was smaller, a handful of elites and their fodder, ready to claim his life.

He would not allow this.

A flaring blue sphere sailed towards him, and the spartan, leaped forward, caught the grenade with the barrel of a plasma rifle, and flung the explosive back at its owner like a metal Frisbee. The sight was darkly comical, the elite grunting in pained confusion as both the grenade and the rifle collided with, and stuck to the center of its forehead. The alien, mercifully, did not have to endure the indignity long, before it erupted into a superheated fireball.

The spartan's shields, now fully recovered, flared as he charged through the detonation, his shoulderplate slamming into the torso of his next opponent, taking them both to the floor, a tactic that almost always proved to be effective. The walkway shuddered under the weight of the two combatants, and Six's helmet whipped backwards as a fist crashed into his visor.

Not to be outdone, he returned the sentiment with twice as much enthusiasm, hitting the creature so hard its helmet caved inwards and its brains were plastered outside of its skull, liquefied grey matter seeping from the ruptured plates of its armor.

A high pitched yip filtered through his exterior radio, and the spartan shifted his ire to the stubby creature that stood half a dozen meters away. The grunt squealed as his helmet turned to it, and the charging bolt of plasma contained by the pistol in its stumpy, clawed grip, launched from the barrel and impacted against the crook of his arm. The spartan grunted in discomfort as his shields flared and popped, the residual irradiated heat searing his skin through his powered exoskeleton.

The little alien quivered in its skin as the lumbering form of the spartan supersoldier rose from the corpse of its squad leader, killed like the rest of its sangheili masters. Its paralysis did not linger however, and it turned to flee after issuing a short bark of terror. But its flight did not last long, as it turned a corner and bowled into the huddled cluster of its clueless brothers.

The spartan barely gave them a thought as he hosed them down, clutching the trigger of another captured plasma rifle until its cooling vents flared. The weapon whined and hissed, ejecting the superheated exhaust in a broiling cloud of pale blue vapor.

Just as quickly as it started, the sounds of battle faded into the wind, and the spartan stood silent sentinel over his work, more tallies to strike on his combat record, though he would not live to do so. He was, in that moment, struck by a sense of potent futility. What was a few dozen, in the face of the incalculable infinitude of the Covenant's zealous legions? He could kill every alien on this dying planet and still only scratch the surface of his foe's number.

Noble Six entertained the notion of defeat, only for a brief interlude, before reality asserted itself, before the measure of his training and dogged tenacity reassumed control.

The numbers of his enemy did not matter. The power and agency of his foe was inconsequential, their aims and desires, irrelevant. All that mattered, all that he cared to dwell upon, was the fierceness of his resolve and the swift distribution of his wrath.

He would make the Covenant bleed, for however much blood he could spill from the corpses of their warriors, whatever destruction he could wreak upon their armies and fleets. He would avenge the fallen, and secure in interest, the cost of his own demise. He would show them, as had all his brothers and sisters, the price they would have to pay to have him.

And he would ensure they paid in full.

A voice shouted across the gore strewn catwalk, surprising him in the fact that it was voiced in fluent English.

"Demon! Look upon me!"

The warrior turned, his gaze traversing the culmination of his work, the manifested reward of his artistry. There was little in the way of blood, the fluid having slipped between the corrugated iron bars of the platform, but the bodies, the lingering accolades of his ability, remained for his appreciative purview. Butchered and mutilated beyond recognition, even by their peers, it was a soothing balm upon the tormented memories these creatures had given him. Not enough. Never enough. But at least in this moment, deemed… adequate. There was much a spartan could do with an iron will and a short length of sharpened steel.

His moment of self-gratification spent, the spartan looked upon the owner of the voice that addressed him, and first noticed the eyes, two gateways into the soul of a creature whose hatred burned nearly as passionately as his own. It was of course an elite, no other Covenant foot soldier ever seemed to match the sangheili ethos for religious fanaticism. Deep maroon armor, patterned with intricate forerunner glyphs that bloomed with shinning radiance, a zealot in appearance, and entirely unsurprising to see at the end. The usual honor and untamed bloodlust of their race was often tempered by age and familiarity, in time tactics changed, their machinations shrouded in obscure convolution. Experience made them cunning, and all the more dangerous for it.

The spartan watched its approach, as the alien paced slowly down the only staircase not reduced to molten slag in the fighting, its steps weighted heavily with stately bearing and martial pride. It held a gleaming sword in one hand, the blade illuminant in regal gold, a color he had not yet seen even among the most influential of sangheili warriors.

Perhaps this one was more than a zealous tool.

Perhaps this was something… new.

The hulking saurian's eyes studied the conclusion of the spartan's destruction, its mandibled expression bereft of tangible emotion, at least as a human might understand. But eyes were universally decipherable. Within there was pity, sadness… and righteous indignation. The elite stopped its advance to crouch beside one of the many corpses of its brethren, brushing a four digited hand across the scorched plating of its helmet. Mandibles guttered as it intoned a quiet benediction, before rising slowly from its haunches to regard the human supersoldier across the carnage.

The fullness of its attention, and the power in its restrained emotion, was leveraged against the spartan. "You…" It whispered hoarsely, its unarmed hand twitching with impotence as it witnessed cruelty that it had never seen before, not from the most sadistic warriors of its enemy. "You are no demon. You are profane… an abomination."

The spartan, with all the eloquence he could care to muster, wiped his blade clean with a cloth he had taken from a fallen sangheili warrior, the lingering dredge of an old memory resurfacing in that moment, a gift from a pious father he had never had the chance to know. _"He hath utterly destroyed them, he hath delivered them to the slaughter. Their slain also shall be cast out, and their stink shall come up out of their carcasses, and the mountains shall be melted with their blood."_

The zealot did not at first speak after the proclamation, the humming energies of its sword the only noise to break the overbearing silence as it saw fit to linger.

Noble Six found this to be an unusual curiosity from his customary dealings with any member of the sangheili race. Such control was uncommon to associate with their brood. Their species thrived on conflict, almost more than the spartans who had been created for that sole purpose. In so he had not expected this. What he had expected, was for the alien to engage immediately upon the discovery of its peers.

This new act of ponderous reserve, was somewhat of a novelty in his eyes.

The sangheili would yet again surprise him.

"So it is as written… the Book of Isaiah, chapter 34, verse 3." It muttered thoughtfully to itself, the glimmer of rage in its eyes subdued as it mused slowly. "How… appropriate." The zealot looked back to the spartan, its mandibles twitching in what was perhaps amusement. "Are you surprised, abomination? Do not be. I have studied your people well, your most prominent religions, your greatest scholars and master strategists."

The elite made a strange noise, a sound that was somewhere between a chuckle and a cough. "You should know this. It is as your Sun Tzu proclaimed centuries ago. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles."

"And I… I know my enemies very well."

The spartan studied his foe circumspectly as the large alien sighed weightily, removing its crested headdress to cast it upon the corpse strewn gantry, the heaviness of the armor piece issuing a resounding crash as it struck the catwalk. Thus revealed, was the myriad of ancient scars set deep in its flesh. Six could see the sangheili's age in its darkened hide, and the paleness of its healed wounds spoke of battles fought long ago. Yet its eyes still shone with vitality, and its movements were lithe and practiced, not the ricketiness of feeble geriatrics. This was a foe very much still in its prime.

"Come then…" It spoke softly, but no less bearing the aura of command, as it shifted its blade into a guarded position. "Let us put an end to this."

The spartan nodded carefully, offering the sangheili a respect rarely given. Perhaps this elite would be the one to claim what so many others had died attempting to take. And there was but one way to find out.

Noble Six reversed his hold on the bloodied hilt of his combat knife, his stance widening to evenly distribute his balance for the impending conflict. His lips pulled back as he barred his teeth, and the spartan grunted a soundless snarl as he leaped forwards.

He was joined not soon after by the zealot, who roared an oath in its own language as he thrust his blade at the human before him.

It was his reflexes that saved him from meeting an end reflective of Noble Four. As the spartan entered melee range, he, in a spiral of back breaking gymnastics, twisted to the side. The energized tines of the plasma blade brushed against his shields, and that alone was enough to shatter them completely.

Alarms screaming in his ears, Noble Six bent low as the sword arced upwards, a seamless transition of movement that showed him a glimpse of his adversary's boundless swordsmanship. And in that moment the spartan knew he was outclassed.

His reasoning was simple. As much as he thrived in close quarters, he was not a swordsman. He had training in the art, just as he had been taught a hundred different disciplines across a hundred fields by his ONI masters, and with his augmentations he was perhaps one of the best of any human to ever wield a sword. But it was obvious, even in the next moment where he threw himself in close to avoid the sweeping slice of a horizontal slash, delivering a righteous uppercut that staggered the hulking beast, that this sangheili's skill surpassed anything he had ever come to face before.

Noble Six had skill.

This zealot field marshal, had mastery.

He was fighting a battle he could not win, at least not like this. The sangheili warrior recovered from its stagger in seconds, blade already soaring towards its foe with the intent to cleave his head from his shoulders, but the spartan was if anything, quicker than this saurian blade master.

His gauntlet shot forward like a piston, his fingers wrapping around the wrist of the elite's sword arm, and halting the impending swing before it could cut into his shoulder. In turn, he thrust his knife towards the unarmored flesh of its throat, and issued a terse grunt of frustration as the gleaming sharpness of his weapon did not find its target. His shields sparked and his armor creaked under the merciless grasp of his adversary.

The alien growled and reared back, and the spartan felt his center of gravity begin to shift. Noble Six leaned away, reasserting his balance, moments before he pushed forwards, the flat visor plate of his helmet smashing into the sangheili's face. Under the force of the impact, his shields shimmered and died, but the satisfying crunch of bone was reward enough, and the spartan was quick to press the momentary advantage.

The human supersoldier drew even closer, out of effective reach from his opponent's blade, and sprang his knee up, the point of his greave slamming into its torso armor. The artfully decorated plates crumped under several hundred pounds of pressure, and an airless huff erupted from the zealot's throat, a squirt of purplish blood splattering across his vision.

Intending to assert his position further, the spartan prepared to strike again to force his enemy to release its hold, but recoiled at the searing pain in his arm. His momentum stunted, Six's range advantage was lost as the elite planted a cloven hoof against his breastplate and forced him back with a surprising feat of strength.

The spartan struck the ground hard, but continued rolling, only to just miss being impaled by the energy dagger protruding from the field marshal's gauntlet. Aware that he was in very real danger of defeat, the last member of Noble threw out his free hand, his fingers brushing across something hard and solid, his grip tightened, and the spartan came out of his roll, plasma rifle spewing blue bolts at his enemy.

The sangheili zealot raised his blade, protecting its unarmored head as it jumped to the side. In a moment, the alien unclasped the weapon at its hip, and returned the fusillade in kind.

The spartan's shields, constantly under assault and unable to recover more than a few percent, were swiftly overwhelmed by the plasma repeater. Several shots connected with his chest and left arm. The heat of the liquid energy boiled at his surface plating, a tangible sensation that caused the spartan to grit his teeth as he reached down and dragged the mauled corpse of a kig-yar from the ground to intercept the barrage. Dull impacts thumped repeatedly into the flesh buffer, and the spartan worked with swift assurance, stripping its point defense gauntlet and hastily attaching the Covenant device to his forearm.

Flinging the corpse at the zealot, he bought himself enough time to activate the energy barrier while the elite shuffled to the side. Springing to life, the circular aegis glimmered a robust orange as it absorbed the storm of shots spewing from his enemy's weapon. However the coverage of the shield was not enough to fully protect him, and the spartan felt a number of hits to his exposed extremities. Yet it was certainly better than the alternative, and the spartan was able to reduce the incoming damage quite effectively as he hurried to close range once more.

Extending his shield arm out, he slammed the energized particle barrier into the field marshal, knocking the plasma repeater out of its grip, and conversely overloading his stolen gauntlet. The spartan retracted his arm, only enough so that he could shoot it forward, smashing his fist into the side of the elite's skull. The strike, focused with all his might, broke its shields and sent the hulking alien to the ground in a crumpled heap. Noble Six immediately fell upon his adversary, unwilling to give it any more chance to recover, and thrust his blade against its breastplate. Yet its armor, a perk afforded by esteemed position and elevated status, deflected the titanium carbide blade. The combat knife snapped, and the jagged length protruding from the hilt skimmed across its armor until the broken weapon lodged into the crease between the sangheili's neck and shoulderplate.

The giant alien shuddered under him, and sputtered a garbled mess of syllables through the blood rushing into its throat, sword raising halfheartedly. Nevertheless, even restrained and near death, the alien's strength was not insubstantial, and the sizzling tines of its weapon etched a superficial furrow in the side of the spartan's helmet.

Such an action was ignored as Noble Six focused upon the alien under him, watching as its struggles slowly ceased, and ensuring that in its final moments, it would fully understand the totality of its defeat.

Slowly, the zealot's struggle waned, and its arm fell limp onto the gantry.

Six leaned off the fallen alien, his armor smoldering and awash in the multicolored fluids of his enemies. In that moment the sky once more called him away from the inhuman bloodbath around him, the orange haze of sunset falling upon the desolate wasteland of Aszod, ending the last day Reach would see under the supervision of mankind. And he knew.

There was nothing left here for him but death.

The spartan departed, leaving behind the corpse of the field marshal and the mutilated remains of the hunter killer teams that had been sent to claim his life. The reprieve he had secured for himself would be brief. Once the fate of this detachment would be learned, more would come, and in far greater numbers.

He would not prevail a second time.

So it was he decided to end his stay in Aszod. Noble Six did not feel it a fitting location for what would be his end. His part in the predominant order of the war may have ended, but he still calculated and strategized, making preparations for his last effort.

The spartan scoured the length and breadth of the shipbreaking yard, gathering what supplies and materials he could, repossessing scattered UNSC and Covenant weapons from the dead, anything and everything that might prove useful. Eventually, under great reluctance, he revisited Noble Four's final repose. And after uttering a solemn, if terse, eulogy, appropriated the fallen warrior's equipment. He worked studiously, and with suitable reverence, as he repurposed what Mjolnir parts could be salvaged, the man's shotgun, and… with greater averseness, Four's kukri.

The idea of stealing from the dead was perhaps in ill-taste, but if anyone could understand the need for disregarding taboo's to gain advantage, it was a spartan. Ultimately, he left Four to his eternal rest and after securing his excess baggage in a carryall rucksack strapped to his back, input a destination in his navigational system. He did not know what awaited him.

But he hoped Lake Farkas would have the answer.

* * *

Ju'das Rasumai returned to the conscious world, consumed by pain. While not an unfamiliar sensation, this was the first time he had felt it in such potency since he had been a youngling training with Uncle Kar'tos in the garden courtyards of their keep. The soreness he felt was much alike the condition Kar'tos had often left him in after a day on the sparring field.

A quiet growl emerged from deep in his chest as gathered his strength and sat up from his supine repose. The effort took a surprising amount of determination on his part, and the sangheili's growl deepened as he brushed a four fingered hand across the cool textile weave wrapping around his throat, the fabric was a soothing, if impotent balm for the pain, and a crested brow raised curiously when he recognized the synth-flesh healing patch.

His next glance, aimed at the chamber he had awoken in, conjured forth familiarity, though he could not remember when he had returned to his quarters aboard the _Journey's End_. Another attentive inspection, of the patch at his throat, and the ensuing spike of pain, served as a trigger to spark his memory, and the clouded miasma confusing his thoughts was shattered by the clarity of his last waking moments.

The demon….

No, Ju'das dismissed the title as he recalled the sight he had come across as he arrived to do battle with one of the legendary warriors of their foe. What had occurred there had transcended beyond the boundaries of war. What Ju'das had seen was not honorable, but sacrilegious. This human was unalike the other demons he had dueled on their fallen fortress world. He had fought and bested many of their kind, in many colors and permutations of armor, and the varied skill that followed. This one had been different.

This creature was an abomination.

His grasp tightened on the wrapping around his throat, and his mandibles flexed in silent indignation as his recollection was sullied by the bitter sting of defeat. Ju'das had never encountered such a demon before, not one as fast, or as resourceful as his most recent adversary. And he would admit, to some small amount, that he had been impressed by its ruthless cunning. Turning the very bodies of the dead into a weapon, while an unorthodox and detestable tactic beyond the consideration of most sangheili warriors, was not to be disregarded.

After all, he could no deny its effectiveness.

He had not lived this long by deafening himself to other methodologies that some of his honorbound brothers might ignore. Ju'das had learned at a young age that an opponent would not always meet you on an equal field, but this had been the first time he had felt that so keenly.

Ju'das Rasumai, snorting disdainfully, tore the patch from his body and forced through his lethargy to get away from the prison of his sleep pod. He would not endure the indignity of the infirm for a moment longer. His pride carried him through the pain as he made his way to the farthermost wall. Clutching at his throat and waiving a hand across the haptic interface, the bulkhead hissed and shifted as plates retracted to reveal the storage unit within.

The sangheili warrior worked quickly and with diligence, removing his charred, battered and blood-soaked combat harness, exchanging the damaged armor for a simple robe of dark blue. The formless mantle fit easily around his bulk, and did much to conceal the true nature of his injuries, and he hoped it might assuage the shame of his condition.

Ju'das wondered, as the storage unit closed and he studied the sparse decorations ornamenting his private quarters, if it would have been better to not wake up at all. Doubtlessly his standing amongst his brothers had suffered severely. To think, a warrior of his lineage, to be bested so blatantly, it was a wonder they had bothered to take him back and heal his wounds.

His surprise was significant, and he did indeed wonder at his curious benefaction, though the answer was apparent. His salvation had come at the behest of the hierarchs. Truly they could see beyond the wiles of their protectors. The prophets did not care for honor in the way of the sangheili. Warriors of his rank were valued resources, and the San'Shyuum would not see such tools be wasted for such inconceivable notions. The realization that he still had a part to play on the path did much to relieve his doubt, and Ju'das felt the flicker of confidence return to a full blaze inside him.

He would find the abomination, and this time he would not fail.

The sangheili was quick to visit the lavatory and fight to return some of his proud bearing to himself. But the task was not an easy one. His loss at the hands of the demon had turned his hide sallow, and the further paleness made his old scars far more prominent. He had lost not an insignificant portion of his lifeblood, and Ju'das struggled to reconcile with his honor.

But he was swift to banish such futile wonderings. To dwell would not bring his pride back. Only the death of the one that had tarnished his reputation would return his honor back to him. And for that, he would need a sanction of pursuit, and to receive that he would need an audience with the hierarchs.

Ju'das returned to his pod, and made to retrieve his sword before departing his chambers. He realized then in that moment that he had lost far more than he had at first realized. His ancestral blade was not slotted into its proper aperture. A jolt of disbelief struck him fiercely as he gazed at the emptiness before him. The dawning understanding of the theft burned more acutely than any of his previous despairs. The blade of Rasum, a relic of his keep that had persisted for a thousand years in service to the right hand of the kaidon, a symbol of the honorable lineage of his ancestors, had been taken from him.

The shame he felt was crushing. Ju'das fought the overpowering need to succumb to the pressure and sink to his knees. He had not ascended to his position, overcoming countless trials and bloodshed, to wallow in despair. He was better than that, his pedigree was better than that.

The solution to this conundrum was readily apparent in his eyes.

Ju'das would simply have to take it back.

* * *

_AN: So, remember the huge update I hinted towards earlier? Well yeah... this is it. So what is for like the forth time, Legacy will be readdressed, although I had promised not to, things change I suppose. Now I imagine there are many of you who may be surprised, and irritated at this sudden shift. Hopefully the majority will understand. After all, as many might note. The first significant portion of its predecessor does not quite match the quality of its later chapters, and there are multiple inconsistencies throughout the plot and fairly blunt leaps in logic. The beginning itself was rather rushed, and I believe it a mistake on my part to have so much occur on the first chapter alone. And so I have, after a great many hours and countless days of deliberation, decided to revise Legacy in its entirety. The majority of plot elements will remain untouched, however their handling will be done with a more appropriate pacing and there will be new arcs included that I feel will be of great benefit to the story. Certain things will be redacted, or otherwise altered, and over all I hope to vastly improve what I had started so many years ago. One of the greatest detractors of the thus far has been, in my opinion, the interaction between Six, Miyu, and Krystal later on in the work. _

_I believe it could be handled much better, for all parties. In full I am just not able to reconcile the way the story started with the way it was ending, and I want to change it for the better. Simply improving earlier chapters, while possible, would not be a seamless integration, and I feel to do that would be to take the cheap way out. I also want to focus more on characterization, not only for the whole cast, but Noble Six especially. As one might notice by this chapter alone, there is a heavier focus on what lingering emotional effects the spartan program might have on its subjects, and some of the more emotional extremes of the human condition. I feel there is a lot of potential in the spartan ethos and I want to do a better job at portraying the concept of man v man. _

_Anyways this probably sounds like a bunch of nonsensical drivel. In conclusion I just wanted to leave a proper explanation for the radical shift, and I hope that my readers will be understanding of my decision. _

_DrakeTheTraveller_

_Keep the faith_


	2. A Beginning

A Beginning

The trek was a grueling slog, almost worse than he had had originally anticipated and the overall length of the journey had been drawn-out in order to evade the bulk of the Covenant occupation. Several days were spent traversing hostile terrain and evading even more hostile patrols. Sometimes he was able to pass through unnoticed… others reduced his ever dwindling source of ammunition. Nevertheless, eventually, and near at the limit of his supplies, he arrived at his destination.

From the vantage point afforded to him by a sheer rock face overlooking the remains of the base, the enemy contingent guarding the blasted skeleton of the once clandestine SPLRR compound, did not appear all that intimidating. Reality, however, was a far more serious affair. A pair of wraith siege tanks, a platoon of varied Covenant infantry, and the presence of a sangheili commander, rather complicated the threadbare plan he had spent the past several days concocting during his march to the remains of the sabre launch facility. He had initially expected minimal, if any kind of enemy force disposition. The severity of this Covenant presence was a surprise, and reaffirmed the spartan's deduction that there was a reason Reach had not yet been fully glassed.

Nevertheless B312 was undeterred from his current course of action. No matter the threat, whatever the means, he would accomplish his objective.

* * *

This was, by a fair margin, the worst day of her life. In moments like these, Lumi Sudomi wondered why she had ever left her homeworld. In moments like this, she was also reminded that such a decision was by the will of the prophets.

However, it was difficult to take comfort in the sacredness of her duties when arms deep in the bowels of heretical machinery. The sharp jolt of pain, and the golden flash of sparks, was suitable castigation for her distraction.

"By the ancestors, confound this blasphemous technology!" She hissed, yanking her numbed hand away from the sparking panel buried in the heart of this unholy contraption. Human technology was fundamentally crude and boorish, and interfacing with their primitive machines was viewed as heretical, especially so as it had been decreed by the hierarchs.

Lumi, her mandibles twitching into a saurian smirk, found an endless source of amusement in the whole affair. As the war against the humans continued, and their _crude, primitive _technology proved to be nonetheless effective in stalling the mighty and oh so very sanctified Covenant military, such sanctions had been… carefully revised.

And she would admit, after having witnessed the tenacity of the humans in the defense of this world, she was starting to see why. Despite its rudimentary nature, when wielded in the hands of their creators, human technology could be used to devastating effect. As such she often wondered why it was the prophets were so single-minded in their desire to destroy the humans. Would it not be better for them to join in the great journey, would not their relentless tenacity be a great boon to the gods and their plans? Had they not earned the honor in the ways of the magelekgolo? Such questions were not unfamiliar in the average rank and file of the sangheili serving in the military. From the many she had spoken with, there was a popular opinion in regards to the humans and their persistence, especially amongst the younger warriors. Most saw it as a sign of great courage and resolve, despite their horrible inadequacies.

Where the kig-yar folded, they proved unrelenting, where the unggoy broke and routed, they fought to the bitter end, and where the yanme'e fell in masses, the humans sold each life dearly.

Unlike any of the Covenant member races, the humans and their spirit could not be broken. Each defeat, instead of shattering their morale, only made their determination that much greater, and their resistance that much fiercer. And Lumi Sudomi was certain that this war would not end with an overwhelming Covenant victory. She was, in fact, uncertain as to _when_ it would end. The swift and decisive victory the prophets had promised had, as of yet, not been delivered.

More importantly, a war initially projected to last months had been drawn out for twenty-seven long and painful years, and there was still no end in sight. Many were still waiting for the prophets to fulfill their promise.

But such opinions were dangerous to bear openly.

Lumi turned her gaze away from the mechanical intestines of the human aircraft, searching for any sign of the commander overseeing her project, as if he might be able to smell her sacrilegious thoughts. Yet the towering presence of the gold clad warrior was absent, and she remained alone in the hanger. Most likely the pompous male was off throwing his superiority around the repurposed human launch facility, though the thought was unfortunate.

She had noticed that Jur Moramee possessed a cruel disposition, and more worryingly, seemed to hold a definite… fondness for her. She desired greatly to finish her efforts here so that she might be assigned to a less uneasy tasking.

Breathing softly in relief at her solitude, she returned her attention towards the gutted human craft with renewed vitality, recording her findings with some personal interest. Regardless of her thoughts on the morale and governmental ambiguity of this war, she still had a task assigned to her, and great repercussions if she were discovered performing inadequately. And as luck would have it, she had vested curiosity in her work.

These humans were such fascinating creatures. Their machinery, while simple in comparison, was actually quite robust, and had a certain utilitarian design and function that bellied the true distinctiveness of their craft. There was something to be… admired, about the artless, yet undeniably functional and quite effective machines of theirs.

Lumi could think on the subject for hours, and indeed she might have if not for the earth shaking explosion that rocked the facility. The female sangheili stumbled from the human craft, thrown from her thoughts by the tremor, and watched the cloud of dust that fell from above. "What…?" She muttered to herself in a confused daze.

She took a step further away from the strange human contraption, thoughts flying in search of an answer for what was occurring. The humans had been pushed back from this world, their armies defeated and their ships left as lifeless wreckage up above. By definition they had lost occupation, and she had been promised that it would be safe to depart her ship and come down to investigate their technology, a promise ensured once again by the hierarchs themselves.

Yet… as she stood in silence now broken up by the occasional thump of explosions, and the brief startlingly interjection of weapons fire, the interpolation of the rapid _snap-pop_ rattle of human weaponry, she felt the icy jolt of uncertainty and disbelief strike her core.

Regardless of her incredulity, or in perhaps in spite of it, the sounds of war did not dissipate, but instead grew louder, and more frequent. The young sangheili female glanced about her makeshift workspace littered with scattered tools and un-attended rations, till her eyes landed upon the cast away outline of her issued service weapon, wondering only briefly as to the merit of arming herself.

The decision was discarded after only a brief internal debate. She had little experience in combat, other than her training on sanghelios. And unlike the vast majority of her kind, she did not take particular relish of violence. In this instance she was certain all that would occur if she tried to fight, would ensure an even more ignoble death.

Her choice made, and afraid to depart the perceived safety of her workstation, she waited for the future to come to her. The following passing of time was tense, and she could feel her muscles flex and strain futilely, her instincts still pushing her to fight or to flee, and yet higher reasoning prevailed, and she remained motionless, all the way until the far door to the room hissed open.

The figured seen inside caused a great sigh of relief to pass through her as she recognized the bright golden armor. And for once, she did not impulsively abhor his very presence. The towering warrior stepped inside, and she prepared to speak with him, to inquire as to what might have happened, when her eyes widened and she took a step back in shock.

Jur Moramee fell to his knees, his mandibles grasping and straining as he vomited dark blood upon the silvered steel of the human facility floor. In his place was an even larger shadow, a figure of splattered fluorescent blue and smeared purple. Lumi recognized the thick, functional bastion of overlapping metal, memorable as the artless but evocative combat harness of the humans' greatest warriors, and the one true legitimate threat to Covenant preeminence. The only ones of their kind that could match the strength of her people, and accomplish feats that would have been legendary had they been of the same species. Here, in person, for the first time in Lumi Sudomi's life, she stood before a demon.

She felt her knees threaten to buckle as the giant armored form of the human warrior strode into the antechamber, its armor drenched in the blood of her kin and the gentle glow of an appropriated and repurposed plasma rifle clutched in a massive gauntlet, the heated barrel of the weapon sweeping from side to side trailing wisps of venting plasma. The motion was replicated in tandem by the demon's great helmet as it scanned the room for further threats.

Yet it saw no more of the Covenant's numberless legions, finding little else but a comparatively diminutive sangheili female bedecked in simple clothing stained by oils and lubricant. No fierce weapon wielded, unless one found alarm in the unassuming computing device she grasped tightly in a shaking, four-fingered hand.

Lumi was no great warrior. She did not join the Covenant's military arm to spread their faith through fire and sword. She was first and foremost a scientist, one of the few and far between of the sangheili to ever dain to touch a profession they considered beneath them. She had been ridiculed and mocked her entire life for persisting in her belief, and she had lost the support of her clan to be where she was today.

There existed no home for her on sanghelios, but so it seemed in this moment as the graceful form of the human warrior approached, so very large and imposing and driven, that such a thing would not remain long as a point of consideration.

It studied her with its impassive faceplate, and she expected to join the many others that had given their lives for the Great Journey. Instead she was treated to a heavy boot to the back of her knee, and a gauntlet to roughly catch the collar of her bodysuit as she fell. The barrel of the plasma rifle pressed tight against the back of her skull, the warmth emanating from its maw, was a stringent reminder of her tenuous grasp of life.

Its actions were so swift and coordinated, that she did not recognize what had occurred until after it was done, and she looked up towards the demon in shock. Her surprise was ignored as the human warrior seemed more interested in her work than herself. She watched as it stared at the partially disassembled fighter craft still secured into its launch cradle.

There was a full cycle of silence as it studied the culmination of several days of effort, before it ponderously shifted its helmet down to Lumi, her mandibled visage blurrily reflected in its golden, mirrored visor.

Then her skull cracked against the floor.

* * *

Noble Six was… bemused. And while that was not an unfamiliar state of mind, in context with what he had walked in upon after clearing out the complex, blood still rushing with unspent adrenaline, this was perhaps the most illustrative of such a thought process.

He had expected numerous outcomes to his half-baked, ill-considered plan, most ending with his hard-fought demise and many dead aliens. However none of them had accoutered for… this.

The spartan, plasma rifle clutched uncertainly in a steady hand, stared down at the unconscious sangheili sprawled across the floor, rendered thusly by a stern fist to the back of the head, therefor alive and very much not dead. Hesitancy in the face of the enemy was not something usually associated with him, nor a spartan of any generation. Nevertheless, he found himself of… divided thought.

He was certainly no expert on the morphology of Covenant member species. He did not care for what form the enemy took, so long as their ultimate destiny was to lie bloodied and broken at his feet. And the sangheili were the highest upon that scale of cold calculation.

And yet, this was the first time he had ever encountered was what was in all appearance a Covenant non-combatant, who also happened to be a sangheili… and apparently a female.

Spartan B312 sighed, holstering his drawn weapon as he turned to address the more worrying and far direr complication that threatened his threadbare plans. The sabre, the vehicle that was supposed to at least guarantee his_ chance _at getting off this doomed planet, sat half-disassembled in its berth, its guts spread out in neatly categorized piles across the breadth of the launch bay, and was certainly in no condition to do anything it had been designed for.

Noble Six looked to the sabre, and then back to the unconscious alien, before grunting tiredly.

When it rains it pours.

* * *

Ju'das departed the council chamber in a thunderous huff, the doors slamming shut behind him as he ventured into the depths of the carrier overcome by anger and disbelief that swelled and surged inside him like the tumultuous sea of his coastal home. Such was his fury, that by presence alone he parted the busied crowds of the ship's hall, unggoy and sangheili alike staggering and stepping aside respectively to make way for the silent anger of the imposing and venerable field marshal.

How could the hierarchs be so blind? How could they be so uncaring? Did they not see the danger this abomination posed? Their skepticism had been apparent, crossing the vastness of space and imparted fully by the indifference upon their digitized features, and all the more wounding for it.

_A trivial concern, _they had called it. The deaths of more than a hundred warriors to the demon were _trivial_, the deaths of good friends and fine sangheili, staunch believers and pious souls, _trivial_.

He scoffed at the sightless imprudence of his leaders. So caught up in the grand arc of their vision that they did not recognize that the most crucial moments were born of the smallest details, they believed the demon would die on that world, assured him most adamantly that there was no possible way it would survive, not against the full might of the Covenant. Yet, despite their placations, in his hearts, Ju'das knew they were wrong to be so confident. He had made that same mistake, suffered that same blind arrogance when he had confronted the demon, standing amidst the bloodied wreckage of his brothers.

And he had been defeated, cast off and left for dead, his honor worth less than the blood that spurted from his throat.

Ju'das had slain demons before, all of varied, but undeniable skill. He was well known and respected for his deeds against the humans and their greatest warriors, at least he had once been. This demon was different… a creature that truly deserved its title. It was no more a warrior than a shackled beast that had stolen its title from its betters.

No.

The abomination would not die on that world.

He had crossed blades with it, and in so had learned the make and measure of its resolve, knew that it could not be stopped by anything less than an opponent of equal or greater will. The prophets did not understand matters of honor. And he would go so far as to claim that they suffered deficiencies in matters of warfare and grand strategy. But his concerns were of no import. Their commandments were absolute. And as of late many soldiers had grown too zealous in assuming their divinity.

They had forgotten that the hierarchs were not themselves gods, but simply their voice.

And of those he could count the Ministry as their most ardent supporters. As such he knew that any action he might take to thusly seek and defeat the abomination would be in direct opposition to his superiors.

This understanding placed Ju'das in an unexpected crisis of faith. For the first time in his many decades of service, he felt himself questioning the will of the prophets, and their collusion with the gods. Would not the gods wish a swift and righteous end to such an abomination as he had faced on the human world? Was not its very existence and affront to the Great Journey? He himself did not have the answers, nor it seemed, did the hierarchs.

"G-Great Marshal…"

Ju'das, though withdrawn in his thoughts as he waked the halls, had presence of mind enough to notice the stunted creature that shuffled up towards him, the diminutive unggoy tottering at a run to match the long legged stride of the much taller sangheili. In recognition he slowed his pace, both as a result of his curiosity and as a courtesy to the stumpy little being that visibly struggled to maintain its closeness.

Most of his people did not hold the unggoy in high regard, they were as a species, inherently fainthearted, and made less than adequate soldiers, treated instead as fodder for the frontlines. Nor did their stature and their strained grasp of the common tongue garner them much respect amongst their peers. Nevertheless, through experience Judas had come to consider them as some of the most devout followers, and could, as certain individuals, possess considerable heart and courage in some of the direst of circumstances.

Further more than that, Judas recognized this particular individual.

Mandibles curling in the slightest imitation of a smile, the large figure of the sangheili turned towards his stout follower. "Minor Nipnup." He greeted the little creature as it slowed to a more manageable walk, looking up to the towering field marshal gratefully.

"Thank much, Great Marshal. Nipnup not good at running fast." The squat unggoy, upon seeing the sangheili's courteous nod, eagerly held a dataslate up for Ju'das to take. "I bring message, Great Marshall. Special Operations Officer Chadamee requests your presence in Hanger C. He say, _it very important Nipnup,_ must hurry-bring Great Marshal, quick-fast!"

Taking the device from the unggoy's thickset digits, the sangheili examined the information compiled for him, and felt his hearts quicken. "When came you by this?"

"Nipnup only just received orders, found you quick-fast yes?" The unggoy asked enthusiastically.

"You did well to find me so quickly." Ju'das praised the little creature, clapping a hand against its shoulder. "I am most grateful."

Nipnup's grin, while obstructed by his clunky breathing apparatus, was heard enough in his jubilant exclamation as he turned and beckoned excitedly. "Thank much, Great Marshal. Nipnup glad to be of service! Now come quick, Nipnup will show you the way!"

Ju'das nodded once more, amused at the young unggoy's eagerness, and followed after the little creature that seemed to have picked up a second wind and impressive stamina, his little legs thumping rapidly on the deck as he led the sangheili to his destination. Some in the hall seemed disgruntled at the small intruder that upset their schedule as he charged recklessly through the crowd, but upon noticing the imposing figure of the sangheili Field Marshal behind him, they were wise to keep their irritation to themselves.

Ju'das Rasumai was not one to be trifled with.

* * *

Spartan B312 was… irritated.

Of all the complications he had expected and prepared for, of all the possibilities of outside interference he had predicted, having to reassemble the partly disassembled components of his escape craft was, in point of fact, not amongst his plans.

It did not help either that he was racing against time. He had done his best to eliminate the Covenant occupation force guarding the facility before they could report his attack, but he had assaulted the entire complex without support. After all he was probably the last human left alive on Reach. Spartan or not, it was inconceivable to assume he could have been fast enough to prevent a call for reinforcements.

They would be coming. And Noble Six would not be here to greet them.

Or so at least that was as far as his plan went.

Reality was proving to be far more bothersome.

The spartan, reconstructing and reinserting the stripped components of the sabre's main fuselage, glanced back to his unexpected captive as his gauntlets flew in a frenzy of deft activity. The saurian alien sat propped against the far wall, bound by a length of discarded piping he had bent into a set of makeshift manacles, still unconscious from the blow it received to the back of the head. As before, his thoughts darkened upon laying eyes at the alien that still breathed as a direct result of his restraint.

Since the moment he had spared its life, Noble Six had been trying to understand the motive that had stayed his hand. Something could be said in favor of the Rules of Engagement and its policy in regards to noncombatants, but it was also clear that the Covenant didn't give two shits about ROEs. There was no reason he should have bothered either. Fair was fair, after all.

Yet there the thrice damned alien sat, very much still alive.

The spartan grunted dismissively, discarding the alien from his thoughts as he returned to the work at hand. Currently he didn't have the luxury to second guess his in-the-moment decision making skills. The sangheili female was alive, and for the interim, she would remain so. Right now, he needed to focus on getting off this planet before it went to hell in a handbasket.

His own situation was less than ideal. He needed thirty to forty minutes to put the sabre back together, and a further ten to fifteen to run a diagnostic to make sure he hadn't screwed up somewhere along the way.

Fully expecting a Covenant incursion somewhere between then and now, he had made his preparations. The doors to the launch pad had been sealed, and all facility systems had been rerouted to the technician terminal hooked up to the cradle. The base itself had been put into lockdown, which should buy him at least twenty minutes when Covenant forces arrived.

However, the upper control room offered any opposition an advantageous overwatch that gave them nearly perfect vision over the hanger. If any enemy forces were able to secure it before he departed, his chances of escape were pretty much null and void. Since he had no intention of being bombarded by fuel rod cannons from a superior position, he had left a suitable surprise in store.

Despite the delay it had caused, Noble Six had spent a brief interlude divesting the facility's armory, and had compiled a formidable assortment of weapons and supplies, condensing them into a pair of storage crates he planned to take with him. Should the second stage of his incredibly stupid and unrealistic plan actually work, he figured he'd have need of the equipment to buy him the time necessary to reach the third phase.

Everything, absolutely _everything_ hinged on his ability to get the sabre working, if for whatever reason it would not fly, then his preparations here would be his last. In that case, he would have no cause for worry, and as such did not put too much thought into that eventuality.

All he needed was a little bit of time.

And yet the deep, thunderous reverberations that shook the very foundations of the sabre launch facility and interrupted his efforts, were inclination enough that time would soon become a precious commodity.

* * *

"The abomination… it is here?" Ju'das turned to the warrior standing beside him, his voice hushed by the din of weapons preparation and the murmured benedictions voiced by the small team of sangheili Special Forces operators and their unggoy companions. Their goal was simple, and yet their target was anything other than that. They were here to hunt a demon, perhaps the most dangerous yet.

Ju'das, having a personal vestment in this hunt, cared little to disguise his interest, which was transposed well enough for his companion to hear. The commander of the lance chuckled softly as he replied. "Worry not, Marshal Rasumai." Officer Chadamee, mandibles flexing amusedly, eyed Ju'das patiently. "You will have the demon you seek, and with it, your honor restored."

Ju'das huffed and snapped his jaws dismissively at the indirect slight. "You need not remind me of the merits of honor, Chadamee."

"Of course, my Marshal." The special operations officer inclined his head deeply. "T'was merely an observation, no affront was intended. I have naught but respect for your contributions to the Great Journey. Your accounts are legendary, even in my keep."

Ju'das dained not to reply, and instead walked to the edge of the phantom's troop compartment. The sangheili turned his thoughts to the horizon, looking thoughtfully upon yet another world turned to glass.

The humans had fought admirably, they always did. But, as always, they failed. Reach they had called this place, and they had battled fiercely in its defense. Many ships in the _Fleet of Particular Justice _had been destroyed in the war for orbital supremacy, and many warriors had given their lives to secure victory on the surface. The unexpected difficulty of this campaign was a stringent reminder of yet another unfulfilled promise from the hierarchs.

It felt as if they were no closer to winning this war then they had been thirteen years ago, and Ju'das spared little thought to the less than zealous nature of his musings, looking instead to the surface of another world that had been disfigured by the fury of their faith. Was their hate for the humans so fierce, so unrelenting, as to merit the destruction of desirable worlds? This would have made for a beautiful colony, the seas had once been bright blue, the air had been crisp and unsoiled by harsh pollutants, and the grasslands had possessed a beauty all their own.

Now, the oceans boiled, and the plains were little more than glass. The air was hot and heavy, the bitter tang of ash a constant companion of every breath. This planet had been ruined, lost like so many others on their path of conquest. And Ju'das took umbrage with yet another decisions of the prophets.

He had been inducted into the studies of war at a young stage in his life, like all sangheili. He had learned of tactics and stratagems at an age where other races focused more on childish games. And his skills with a blade had been honed through his adolescent years under punitive tutors.

It was not unreasonable to conclude that he had been born for war. And yet this was no like no war he had ever participated in.

More accurately, this was nothing but an extermination. They did not spare the human young, nor the elderly and infirm. They did not keep prisoners. Any human unfortunate enough to be captured, found their last moments to be used as little more than sport, or perhaps even as a meal for a pack of hungry jiralhanae or a coven of backbiting kig-yar.

The lauded tenets of the Covenant, the principles that defined their religion and unified the diverse species of their empire, had been discarded in favor of this policy of unremitting genocide. And they were so surprised, that the humans fought so tenaciously?

The line between right and wrong had ever grown blurred in the years of this war, and Ju'das did not feel the same staunchness of faith as he had at the onset of this crusade. He had watched far too many good warriors die, and the screams of the defenseless often became a familiar companion in the dead of night. He had witnessed more horrors propagated upon the humans in the past twenty-seven years, then had ever been done between all the species of the Covenant in the entirety of its existence.

He had seen good friends turn cruel and vindictive, and had heard the delight some of his peers took in crushing a technologically inferior foe and the pleasure they took in their physical superiority over the average human. More than once he had watched one of his collogues toy with a human warrior, offering the illusion of hope to a broken and battered creature, moments before snuffing it out.

Ju'das could only turn his thoughts to such memories, and wonder if it was really so surprising that the abomination was so full of hate and malice. The demons had been the humans' answer to the wrongs forced upon their people.

As a collective, humans were small and weak, placed on a scale somewhere between an unggoy and a kig-yar. They were brave and coordinated fighters possessing an impressive understanding of strategy that few of the citizens of the Covenant could match, but in physical combat with most member species, they were inherently disadvantaged.

Yet the demons were the manifestation of their resolve. He had seen a demon, alone and unaided, make a mockery of the best the Covenant had to offer. Their exploits were infamous amongst the ranks and accounts of their activities were as consummate as they were omitted by the ministry, able to turn great hordes of unggoy on appearance alone, and give pause to the greatest of jiralhanae.

The phantom soared over the last mountain between them and their target, leaning into a steep dive that crested the jutting rock formations and skimmed just above the open field that spanned for several kilometers outside the human compound.

Ju'das looked on to their destination, studying the destruction that had been revisited upon the human dwelling. He could see already, proof that the abomination had indeed been here as Chadamee had promised, an unfortunate truth for the warriors sent here on their mission.

The gates of the military installation, blasted open in the initial assault, had proved no deterrent to the demon, nor had the pair of wraith tanks in their place. Both vehicles burned with blue flames, belching black smoke into the sky, and even as the dropship neared he could smell the occupants cooking within their hulls.

Several bodies lay sprawled nearby, mostly kig-yar, riddled with the crude ballistics of human weaponry, and stripped of their own, no doubt to supplement the demon's arsenal as it furthered its unknown ambitions. The sangheili field marshal sighed heavily as the phantom sped forwards at the sight, the pilot eager to unload his cargo so that they might enact retribution.

Seeing all that he needed, Ju'das made his preparations for what was to come, and followed the special operations team as they disembarked the transport. Moral was high despite the scene they had arrived to, and he could tell that the sangheili amongst them were fervent for the task, each no doubt wondering if they would be the one to claim the honor that awaited them.

Ju'das could only sigh and offer a humble prayer. These warriors were strong and experienced, veterans of many operations and campaigns, but he could see in their actions, in the way they showed little hesitancy, that they had not yet faced a demon in combat.

They were unprepared and the field marshal wondered if he himself was ready to face his foe again. He worried that more than his honor had been lost in his defeat at the abominations behest.

The dual, heavy impacts that slammed into the dirt behind him however, were enough to encourage Ju'das, reminding him that unlike before, he would not be on his own. He glanced over his shoulder to the pair of towering magelekgolo that marched in step, their bond synchronizing their movements to a near ethereal perfection. Each was armored in the equivalent of starship grade hull plating festooned in spines, and wielded immense cannons that fired beams of emerald energy.

The magelekgolo, Ju'das predicted, would be the deciding factor if they were to emerge victorious. For demons were cunning, and this abomination was no different, numbers alone did not guarantee victory. Both human and sangheili scholars had made note of this fact, and there was precedence for such knowledge.

"Come, Marshal, we have prey to hunt!" Chadamee called to him eagerly, the stalwart sangheili leading his lance past the gates and into the facility proper, stepping over the corpses of their brethren who had tried, and failed, to accomplish what so many had attempted before.

Ju'das, sparing one last cursory glance to the pair of behemoths that strode behind him and conversed with one another in the deep rumble of their speech, followed in the footsteps of the eager officer, though he did not share such a fervent disposition.

The truth was, as he came to realize, that reality had no place with zealousy.

* * *

He was out of time.

They had come for him, and sooner than he had been prepared for. B312 took a reprieve from his efforts to prepare, rearranging supply crates into an improvised barricade around the launch pad. It would not ward off heavy weapons, but it would hopefully keep the sabre from any significant damage that might prevent his launch.

The spartan, in the midst of stacking his defenses, refrained from dwelling on the very real possibility that he would not survive overlong afterwards. His end had already been decided, and all his current efforts were really just to see how far he could push the envelope.

As ready as he would ever be, Noble Six, after a period of hard thinking, pulled the female sangheili to the side of the launch bay, away from the worst of the firefight to come. Having decided that he would at least not be directly responsible for her death, and unwilling to think on his leniency any further, stashed the alien out of sight, and therefor out of mind.

His affairs settled, the spartan returned to his more important dealings in greater haste. With the enemy closing in, he'd have to cut a few steps from his plan, namely the maintenance diagnostic on the sabre's core systems. That bought him ten minutes, though he would need at least twice that much to get the ship operational.

B312 grimaced as he reaffixed the outer paneling on the hull. This was not as glorious of an end as he had been hoping it would be. So far he felt more like a mechanic than a spartan. In truth, he was almost glad for the arrival of the enemy as they fit more in line with his expectations, although he was soon to regret the thought when his motion tracker triggered

Noble Six counted the red dots that closed in on his position, noticing that their number was smaller than anticipated. However their grouping and pace was recognizable, and he readjusted his plans to account for the appearance of a special ops unit. They would be more difficult than the usual massed infantry waves the Covenant employed. But he had dealt with his fair share of Special Forces before.

The spartan pulled aside from the sabre, stacking up against the closest container and retrieving the long bodied, distinctly alien frame of the focus rifle he had stashed earlier. It was not as directly potent as the particle rifle, but he was not exactly flush with options at the moment.

Reaching an arm back to the slot in his armor at the base of his spine, he extracted the armor mod and slotted in a piece of Covenant tech. His HUD flashed as it downloaded and unencrypted the foreign software, integrating the alien system into his Mjolnir. He wasted no time, and as soon as the patch was installed, he keyed its function, disappearing in a shimmer of reflected light.

He waited to spring his trap, watching the command center as the aliens entered the room above the launch pad. They used standard tactics, nothing special or particularly noteworthy, grunts above with heavy explosives, assisted by a pair of jackals with support weapons. As the radar contacts had split earlier, he knew that the core sangheili lance was making their way down to him.

B312 was somewhat impressed that they had cleared the rest of the facility so quickly, and he knew that would mean he had even less time to work with then he had first thought. He just might have to launch without a few sheets of the external hull, unfortunate, but survivable.

Noble Six decided to skip any formalities in favor of triggering the detonator.

His visor polarized, and the spartan hunkered down as the windows blew out of the command and control center, gutters of flame shooting from the frames, scattering warped chunks of metal and charred body parts. Stepping from cover, he tossed a frag up and into the devastation, preparing a second just as the doors to the launch room were blasted open.

Pulling the pin, he chucked it through the smoke and repositioned behind a maintenance console at the bottom of the ramp. Three seconds and the ground shook as the grenade burst in the hallway, and the spartan shouldered the fusion lance in preparation.

The first sangheili to stumble out of the smoke fell to the floor soon after, bisected by the beam of directed energy that separated its legs from its torso, and the second followed swiftly in the footsteps of its predecessor. The corpses fell, and for a moment there was no one else to follow.

Then three blue spheres hurtled inside, and the spartan crouched low as the explosions tore through the room, taking fire to the tarps that had been lain out by men long since dead. Following in the wake of the flames was the enemy, his motion tracker flashing with activity as several contacts stormed inside, laying a thick torrent of plasma bolts into anything and everything they could see.

As the spartan was invisible, he was not amongst their targets. Instead he lunged forwards and caught the first alien in the gut with his shoulder. The giant saurian, draped in ornamented regalia, did not have the chance to contemplate its failures, as the spartan locked his elbow around its throat and wrenched its head backwards past biological limitations.

Snatching the plasma repeater from its limp grip, he tucked an arm under its pits and held the corpse out in front of him to absorb the worst of the returning fire and allow the spartan the flexibility to pick and choose his own targets.

Obscured by the growing haze of smoke from the flames and his partially effective active camo, most of the shots taken on him were near misses, and those that did make it through were dulled by the barrier of metal and flesh he had imposed between himself and his adversaries.

And then there was a flash of green, and an overwhelming surge of heat.

The spartan blacked out, only to regain his senses and notice that he was now draped haplessly over a smoldering crate halfway across the hanger. His shields crackled and sparked, indicating that the generator had overloaded, and that he was dangerously vulnerable. He could taste copper, and his nose was filled with the smell of burning ozone.

Noble Six tumbled back over the crate and rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the second beam of viridian light he had been expecting. The plasmatic lance punched through the steel box and slammed into the far wall, boring a hole into a foot of titanium sheet metal.

He grimaced.

Hunters…

They would be a problem.

While he had anticipated that the Covenant would bring out their walking artillery, the limited arsenal he had on hand was not appropriate compensation. With that he had now his odds of success were… less than optimal. His suicide mission, as it seemed, had just become even more suicidal.

So be it.

B312 primed his muscles and launched forward. Diving hard, he cut under another burst from a hunter's assault cannon and came out of his maneuver at full speed, clenching hard on the fire assembly of a plasma rifle wielded in either gauntlet. The fusilladed of shaped energy splashed harmlessly against the massive shields that blockaded the entry doors.

Then the shields parted like a gate comprised of starship grade hull plating. Two gaping barrels jutted forth from behind the makeshift barricade, crackling with building energy.

In answer, Noble Six lobbed a frag right between them. The pair of shields slammed shut like a coffin lid, but they were too slow to stop a spartan. There was a muted thump, and a flash, as the grenade detonated and showered the outer corridor and its occupants in shrapnel.

The shield bearer on the left sagged and thrummed in pain, providing the slightest of openings for B312 to ply his only advantage. The spartan threw himself forwards, breaching the gap with a millimeter to spare. He landed hard on his spine, guns up and firing into the unprotected backs of the two hunters.

With the understanding that momentum was the only thing preventing him from being killed, Noble Six flipped into a backwards somersault and slammed his elbow into the throat of the closest sangheili warrior. The blow was solid, the impact traveling through even though its shields endured, it was strong enough to send the beast gasping. Retracting his arm, he prepared a supercharged haymaker and plunged it into the second.

All of this occurred in the span of five seconds.

And then the world went still.

* * *

It was not long before the demon fell amongst their dwindling number to thwart everything they had prepared to accomplish. Their plan had been executed perfectly, simple but effective. Heavy weapons from above to cover their steady approach upon the abomination's position, and a vanguard of the best close quarters fighters supported by the hunter pair. By all rights it should have been more than sufficient, even for one such as the prey they hunted.

And yet, from the reach echelon Ju'das was able to watch as all of their efforts were undone.

The fire support, so carefully positioned and prepared, had been incinerated, along with the entire room they had set-up in. No doubt their killer had been a charge placed prior to their arrival. The first warriors to charge into the room were scythed down as they entered into a prepared kill zone, and Chadamee himself had been killed and hoisted like a puppet to turn away their fire as it advanced upon them. His death was unfortunate and yet ultimately expected. Chadamee had been brave, but foolish, a trait that seemed to dominate sangheili culture throughout this war.

It was, Ju'das feared, a characteristic that the demons and this abomination frequently exploited.

And as the magelekgolo were wounded, giving their adversary the opening it needed to slip amongst them, he could see firsthand what their sense of entitlement had done to them as the creature made a mockery of their martial mastery. There was nothing to blame but their own complacency.

Minors Raso and Kyaza were felled quickly, perhaps even mercifully, so they did not have to face the shame of their failure. Ju'das stepped away from the armored monster, wary of its physical ability and unwilling to take a risk he did not need. He took the opportunity to plan his reprisal, and hope the magelekgolo could accomplish what he had been unable to.

The eldest of the pair, as told by its greater height and lengthened spines, was the first to turn and face the threat among them. Wielding its shield like a ram it sent the partition of metal rocketing out towards the abomination with the full intent of splattering it against the facility wall.

Such, however, was not to be.

It contorted like water around a stone, the hilted device in the human's left hand stuttering to life. And it was by Ju'das' ancestral blade that one of the mightiest Covenant soldiers was slain. The plasma sword, one that had been in his lineage for generations, hacked through the massive magelekgolo's unarmored midriff with traitorous ease.

The sangheili could feel his ancestors cry out at the indignity, and so with a hateful roar he charged forward, all plans forgotten, plasma repeater thundering at his despicable foe. His enraged shout was amplified a thousand times by the deep reverberation of the magelekgolo bond brother as it threw itself upon the abomination in a fit mindless insanity.

The human warrior discarded all weapons but that which it had stolen and raised an arm to ward off Ju'das' attack, the familiar form of a kig-yar point defense gauntlet activating in an amber haze. The barrier turned away his shots, and the relentless demon moved too quickly to be brought down by the sluggishness of the magelekgolo's lumbering swipes. The abomination weaved in close under its guard and struck thrice with the thieved blade in rapid succession, cutting deep into the unarmored gaps and divesting the hulking beast of both its arms and its right leg.

Boiling blood and charred worms spewed from the severed limbs, and Ju'das felt sorrow as the once proud creature collapsed with a pitiful rumble by the corpse of its fallen brother, defeated and denied its vengeance. The sangheili field marshal realized in that moment as the blood soaked demon, painted in the fluids of his comrades in arms, turned its visored gaze upon him… that they were not enough to stop it.

He had thought his will… his faith, to be stronger than that of honorless abomination. But as he matched its stare and watched as it readied itself to face him, wielding the honored weapon of his forefathers, he knew that after decades of battle he had finally met his match.

Nevertheless he drew Kyaza's blade from its owner's corpse and readied to greet the gods. If he had lost his honor in life, he would at least find it again in death.

* * *

"Your blasphemy ends here, abomination. I swear it."

B312 was… less than enthusiastic at the prospect of facing the same foe twice. If he were to consider as well, the state he had left this particular alien in, he would also admit that to see it again was a surprise, an exasperating one at that. He might have been impressed with its persistence if not for its bastardized heritage.

In view of that, he was instead rather infuriated. Noble Six was not in the mood for games, and had since lost his taste for the dramatic. His limited operational window had not included the possibility of an alien hell-bent on revenge.

And his timetable had shrunk as much as he would allow.

"_Fuck off."_ The spartan snarled wearily, and turned his back on the slavering sangheili warrior.

Though it was not a native of the dominant human language, it was prescient enough to understand an insult when it heard one. Many human warriors had no doubt uttered similar declarations before meeting their end at its hand.

The sangheili field marshal gargled, its hoarse vocalization lost somewhere between an enraged growl and a disbelieving scoff as it wondered at the demon's boundless temerity. It raised its taken blade, ready to sink it into the unguarded back of his adversary, when it heard the rattle of several metallic objects on the floor.

The alien glanced down and watched a trio of grenades bounce off the ground and roll towards him.

* * *

Noble Six left the marshal to the tender mercies of his farewell gift, and dusted the ensuing shrapnel flakes off his armor. He would have preferred to confirm the kill, or at least have the satisfaction of watching the damn thing bleed out, but he could not suffer any more delays. The op was already a stretch on realistic expectations, and he was adverse to the idea of wasting what little luck he had left.

Luck as he had come to understand it, belonged to other people.

Amidst the carnage and wreckage of the recent firefight the object of all his preparations rested in its cradle, remarkably intact and as ready to fly as it would ever be. B312 worked quickly, loading the trunks and running a very brief pre-flight checklist, enough to ensure that it would not explode upon ignition. If the sabre was to go up in flames, he'd prefer to burn up in atmosphere.

With the fuel in the tank he had the means to accomplish his objective. And with the cannons loaded and the missile racks full, he'd be able to stop anything that tried to stop him, at least anything within the confines of reason. He held no illusions that a sabre might outgun a Covenant cruiser of any class or nomination.

Noble Six climbed up the gantry and opened the canopy with the keypad recessed into the hull paneling beside, scaling up the vertical incline and into the pilot's seat with a slow, welcomed familiarity. Before Reach, before ONI had tasked him with running anti-Covenant operations, he had been one of few test pilots for the new flight system, and was unusually versed in avionics for a spartan. He wasn't much of a scientist, but military technology was somewhat of a personal passion of his.

He knew the ins and outs of the YSS-1000 almost as naturally as his Mjolnir, and his flight record and the operation over Mamore indicated as much.

B312 patted the flight stick, running his other gauntlet over the onboard system display with the lingering trace of genuine affection, although his fondness was tainted by memories of his last trip. He hoped that his sacrifice would be something 052 could be proud of, and something the enemy would never forget.

The spartan skipped most of the actual checklist as he started ignition, the shudder that surged through the sabre's hull knocking loose a memory he had turned aside for lack of interest. He glanced out the canopy, wondering for whatever reason, if the sangheili female had survived the engagement. He had never been directly responsible for the death of a noncombatant, at least insofar as ONI recognized. The idea of it left an… unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Regardless, the memory was a fleeting one that the spartan ultimately disregarded as he turned to more important matters at hand.

After all, he had a ship to hijack.

* * *

For the second time that day, Ju'das Rasumai regained consciousness in a way that was disagreeable. The smell of smoke and human explosives wafted into his nostrils, and the sangheili field marshal groaned as he climbed to his hooved feet amidst the thick blanket of smoke.

He recalled, to his dissatisfaction, the insult he was rendered, and felt his bile rise with his anger. Had he not thought the abomination despicable enough, it now did not even dain him a worthy opponent. It had nearly done him away in the most contemptible of fashions, and that was a slight that could not stand.

Ju'das climbed over the bodies of the fallen magelekgolo and through the flames, into the debris strewn chamber of the human hanger. There he saw the bodies of his fellow warriors, more proud sangheili dead at the hands of the beast. He doubted that he might even find anything left of the warriors stationed up above. And in that moment, he could taste the bitterness of defeat in the acrid pollution that rose from the flames.

They had stood no chance against its cunning, and its resourcefulness was at a hitherto untold aptitude. It had seen through their plans before they had even made them, and turned the best the Covenant had to offer into bumbling children tripping over their own feet.

He saw no sign of it, and had at first no inclination as to where it might have gone, at least until he noticed the empty, primitive launch cradle. The abomination had absconded with its victory and taken to flight, its plans as of yet unknown, but intent clear to read. Wherever it had departed, death was soon to follow.

Sighing heavily at the fullness of his shame, Ju'das activated his communications device and hailed his pilot. The conduct of their conversation had been brief and pointed. The male had seemed ecstatic at first, but his mood had darkened as the information was given. The call completed shortly, and Ju'das was left to wait for his arrival.

The aged sangheili swordmaster took in again, the sight of their efforts, and sat upon the sagging weight of a human container, content to stew in his bitterness till his transport returned. There were many dead in this operation, and they had nothing to show for it.

Should the hierarchs learn of this, they would be most displeased, The Ministry, perhaps even more so. If the gods were on his side, he might at least be granted a swift death.

If not… as it so happened to be, there has not yet been another arbiter in many years.

The faint rustle of movement drew him from his bleak musing, and the field marshal rose from his seat slowly, his actions calm and collected. He knew the abomination was gone, but perhaps there was someone else that might have survived its tending.

If there was at least one other, he would thank the gods for their kind benefaction.

* * *

_AN: Here's the next part fresh of the press. I hope it is a good one for you readers. I wanted to make the events preceding Lylat to have a more comfortable pacing then the original work had indicated, while not stretching it to a point of irritation. Or so at least that's how it should be in theory. It was also my hope to add a little more depth to the Covenant, after all the war has been going on for 27 odd years, and I felt there had to be at least a few amongst them that were becoming disillusioned with it all, as I hoped to portray properly with Ju'das and Lumi. _

_On a different tangent, I am pleased as pie to see the responses thus far for the remake. And it is with this writers most humble gratitude that I thank you for your words and inspiration. I'd write this story even without your kindness, though it does me some good to read your thoughts. So as always, feel free to leave reviews and suggestions, your words are always a pleasure. _

_Keep the faith!_

_Drake_


	3. Absolution

Space - despite the tumultuous maelstrom of death and violence that had been visited upon the silent dark above the fallen world - was peaceful. A sense of stillness had descended upon the remains of a battlefield decided long ago. The flashing light of weapons fire no longer traced like bolts of starlight across the vastness of infinity and the engines of great machines no longer churned eddies of disturbances across the serenity of airless seas.

Armistice had descended upon the once fierce frontline of humanity's latest attempt at staving off the intruding inevitability of its laborious decline. And for Noble Six, it was all the bitter for it.

A new asteroid belt had been spawned into existence, born of the shattered hulls of hundreds of vessels, some alien, but far too many human. The field of debris stretched vast in its dimension, both in lateral and longitudinal vectors, an orbital graveyard that kept in its lifeless hulks the voided remains of thousands of souls. It was like many such artificial creations before it, a harsh lesson in futility.

Once again the staunchest of mankind's efforts were left barren and discarded, cast away like the neglected toys of a careless god. There was no hope to behold at the sight of broken warships and blasted fragments of wasted humanity despoiled and made wane by the callousness of extraterrestrial rage. There was no rallying cry of vengeance afire in his heart, no call for retribution in an impassioned voice.

He only felt tired, and cold.

The lone shadow of his sabre weaved slowly through the sprawling wreckage of what had once been an enormous battle, coasting on the intermittent sputter of maneuvering thrusters and precipitated only by the sheer tenacity of his indomitable patience. The intent was to appear as little more than a chunk of errant debris, no different from thousands of other such pieces that drifted amid the ruins. As he had not yet been hunted by a pack of seraph interceptors, he could only assume that his deception had confounded Covenant sensors.

It was not the first time, but he was sure it'd be the last.

Noble Six had spent many hours searching the debris field, scanning by vision alone for the lauded prize he sought. He dwelled little on the possibility that what he sought did not exist, after all, the Covenant were nothing if not thorough. Yet there was no place for doubt, not now and not ever. If he was not to find his target, well…

The spartan glanced out the canopy into an infinite void of black.

He had a feeling he'd have more than enough time to make his peace.

But not yet, it would not end until he was given his pound of flesh. He had a plan, not a very good one, but good enough, he hoped, to see this to the end. Everything he had left, everything he was, had built to this last opportunity.

There was no second chance, no coming back.

He had one shot to make this work, with no guarantee of success.

The prospect was enough to force him to smile, as grim as it may have been. He supposed that in truth nothing had really changed. The odds had always been against him, every day of every moment, every breath, was in defiance of the monsters that had taken his life, his family, and a hope for a future. Now was the hour.

He would have his reparation.

The spartan laid eyes upon his objective, one of many lifeless shells that floated in the abyss, yet made remarkable for the fact it was suitable for his needs. The eviscerated superstructure of the UNSC heavy cruiser did not quite cut the same noble profile as it once did, and the cloud of crystallized hydrogen and spaced personnel did not count itself as the warmest welcoming mat he had trod upon.

But dead was dead, and they were long beyond his help.

Maneuvering thrusters sparked twice, the first turning the nose of the sabre in the direction of the hanger and the second pushing the small profile of the strike craft inside past the warped metals of what had once been the launch doors. There was little left that was recognizable, and from his experience Noble Six was able to discern that a plasma torpedo had been the final death of this ship and her crew.

There was no real defense against the overwhelming superiority of Covenant technology, and so was the work of their power realized in the wake of its devastation. The warhead of superheated plasma had gutted the heart of the once mighty colossus, melting through meters of Grade-A titanium battleplate to tear the life from the marathon class cruiser's core, opening its iron bowels to the cruel grasp of the void. The damage was catastrophic, and as he popped the sabre's canopy and floated out into the debris strewn skeleton of the desolate warship, he wondered if this really was the answer he had been searching for.

It must have, since it was pervaded by the touch of death he knew so keenly.

The corridors of the ship, at least those not fully exposed to hard vacuum, were strewn with broken corpses and sheets of paneling ripped from the deck. The spartan weaved through the frozen remains and pushed aside lengths of cable suspended from the exposed wiring inside the ceiling. His spacewalk through the ravaged interior was decidedly different than customary. The route was frequently interrupted by emergency bulkheads that sealed core sections of the dead ship, not that they had prevented much in the end. Regardless of the obstructions, there were plenty of breaches and crude exterior openings for him to find a way around the impediments and in that way memory served as his guide, leading him to the first of two destinations.

The engine room, like most compartments, had been severely damaged in the ship's final battle, revealed in full by the powerful light emanating from his headlamp attachment. The beam of photons revealed cooled slag seeped from half-formed walls, like the watery tines of a metal waterfall locked in endless winter. Given the myriad of obstacles he was compelled to maneuver down through the floating maze of hull plating and abandoned circuitry. And though outside appearance foreshadowed significant damage to interior systems, he was relieved to discover that the destruction was limited mostly to the external coverings. Setting his boots on the deck with the dull thump of magnetized steel, he brushed a gauntlet across the maintenance console's display.

The screen flickered to life, albeit dimly, and the spartan worked quickly to access whatever remained of the ship's electrical systems. There wasn't much to speak of in regards to power, little more than the pilot light of a dying star.

But, it was enough.

His work was brief, but extraneous, as he applied his incomplete knowledge of aerospace technology and extensive understanding in mechanical engineering to breathe new life into the ship's reactor. Sufficient enough to restore working order to the engines, weapons systems, and the key to his half-cocked plans, it was not quite able to turn the lights back on or restore any semblance of life-support. But even if it were he would not have taken the risk. Anymore energy and they'd light up like a nuke on any Covenant sensors across the system.

The spartan glanced at his Heads Up Display, noting the counter at the bottom right of his vision that continuously cycled lower and lower. There was less than sixty minutes left in his air tank before he would start to suck down C02, and significantly less than that before he blacked out. It was good then, that his plan would actually work, as the thought of suffocating on a dead starship hardly appealed to him. The thought of death reminded Noble Six of his encroaching mortality, and the spartan grew contemplative and withdrawn, bathed in the irradiated fissile of the reactor that shed an intermittent blue hue across the battle-scarred breadth of engineering. The power plant's dying efforts to return to full functionality offered a token source of vision as he exited the empty compartment and took an express route through the spine of the fallen warship. With power came access, lifting the emergency lockdown and giving him a direct line to the bridge.

The time spent in transit was… peaceful. If not for the occasional frozen corpse bloating the corridors and the horrific scarring left in the wake of the conflict that had ruined the cruiser, it might have been a pleasant experience. The practical architecture of the halls evoked a sense of needed familiarity, and was a reminder that he was one step closer to getting the rest he had long sought.

Near on fifteen years he'd served in the best interest of mankind. In that time he'd lost a hell of a lot more than he'd won, friends, family… his entire world. The Covenant had taken all of this from him at an age where he had been unable to even recognize the true extent of his circumstances. The years in the absence of all the comfort's he had grown to appreciate, and the realization that the normalcy he had once known would never come back, had been a harsh reality check.

Noble Six forewent such distractions as he stepped onto the bridge to a scene suspended in time, bodies still buckled into duty stations, the duress of their last moments frozen on their grim countenances for the remainder of eternity, or so at least as long as the ship was still needed. Focus was mandatory if he were to implement his grand design. There were yet pieces to be played, the last crux that hinged success or failure.

The spartan-III approached the captain's seat, unbuckled the stiffened woman from her station, and released her icy corpse into the borderless beyond waiting outside the bridge's shattered windows. She had done her duty, and it was time he performed his. Six subsumed her position, interfacing with the neural lace jack to take command of the shattered derelict. The connection was crude, and never intended to be taken so far. But considering the situation, and his lack of self-preservation, he was not overly concerned with any long-term side-effects.

Sitting in the dark amidst the dead, in governance of a ship that would sail one last time not for the UNSC, but under the spirit of vengeance, Noble Six revisited his memories, searching for some kind of solace in past deeds as he laid eyes upon his target and set course. Though when engines flared, forcing the broken skeleton of a starship to partake in its final flight, the spartan grasped, with a sense of detached reality, that there was no solace for a man like him. He could not recall the tattered remnants of his childhood or the features of his parentage. He had nothing but the war, and a decade and a half of war-torn reflections to contemplate. And in those bloodied memories there was no reprieve.

The end, _his_ end, would come, and he would have no pleasant thoughts. The impending culmination of his retribution, as he discovered here at the apex of his plans, did not fill the emptiness in his heart. That would have been too far a kindness for the likes of him.

He would die unfulfilled and discontent.

And yet what else was there he might have suspected?

Silence deafened his senses, broken only by the steady pace of his breathing, yet sufficiently quiet to offer him a gratuitous bubble in which to dwell on his impermanence in ponderous introspection. Outside his musing, the ravaged hulk of his commandeered marathon class cruiser pulled away from the debris field, first at a sedate pace, and then, as minutes passed, gaining further and further speed.

The Covenant response was lethargic, perhaps disbelieving or more likely amused at the sight of the broken human vessel limping from the skeletal clutches of the orbital graveyard, trailing scrap and corpses like the blood of a desperate animal in its final throes. A single ship pulled away from the flotilla to investigate, a CCS-Battlecruiser, which upon seeing no genuine threat from the visibly crippled human vessel, did not even deem it fit to raise shields. It did however launch a full array of boarding craft and seraphs, perhaps seeing some amusement to be had.

The spartan, with a series of commands input into the captain chair's interface, turned the marathon's prow towards his foe and activated what remained of the point defense array to little effect. The main gun of this ship had been slagged in its last battle, a fact that offered no alteration to his plans. He had no need for such tools of war, not for what was to come.

Chains of alternating light shot across the darkness as the handful of functional AA batteries unloaded what was left of their payloads, firing far out of effective engagement range as little more than a display in futility, one he knew would goad the sangheili captain. Despite their technological superiority, their overconfidence as a species was a well-known, crippling weakness when exploited properly.

As expected, the bulbous prow of the battlecruiser cleaved through the currents of space at greater speed, intending to come aside the audacious human ship that dared to challenge Covenant preeminence. No doubt to them this was merely an unanticipated game, a little sport to occupy themselves while their other forces finished their work down below.

Noble Six let them come, intentionally ensured the AA batteries would not hit their targets, and breathed new life into the engines., bidding his time with patience born of measured inevitability. The warped remnants of the ship's superstructure, shuddered as multiple boarding craft slammed into its hull, disgorging a plethora of zealous warriors that would soon discover that there was no prey to hunt amongst the dead. Still he waited, silent and enduring, for the gratification he hoped he might finally feel before the end.

And then, in a single moment, as a thousand calculations at last shifted into place, he struck with speed and precision.

The trembling of the cruiser's frame turned violent and explosive as he suddenly cut power to the engines, firing all of the remaining maneuvering thrusters on the starboard side. Already battered and broken, there was little resistance before the ship started to come apart. He could feel riveted plates buckle as they gave way under immense stress, and the decking under his feet warped and cracked, nearly tearing the captain's chair from its mounting.

But thanks to the enduring work of UNSC engineers the ship only nearly prevented itself from tearing apart. And in the moment as the worst of the damage subsided, he put all remaining power into the fusion drives, and prepared to once more show the enemy the price of their unmatched arrogance.

He had calculated everything perfectly, the culmination of all his plans plunging like a lance into the heart of his enemy.

The spartan leaped from his seat and departed the bridge as fast as his legs could carry him away from the keel of the Covenant warship that was getting closer by the second. Rounding one of several corners along the passageway from the bridge to the stern, he came across a small party of boarders, a single elite and his grunt escorts.

The spartan sprinted past, his fist crashing against the sangheili's ostensibly bewildered mandibles as he leaned into the turn. Disengaging the magnetized grounding in his greaves, he planted his boots firmly into the sidewall of the next corridor and launched himself down the stretch of hallway.

And then the two vessels impacted, and everything went black.

* * *

Lumi awoke under duress, roused by raised voices and the very fact that the ground beneath her shuddered and bucked like a wild velithra. The female sangheili's attempt to sit up was a dismal failure, as she instead hunched over and held a hand to her throbbing skull. The rapid trample of many pairs of hurried feet ushered her out of her confusion as she forced senses to reassert themselves.

Opening her eyes, she was not sure whether or not to regret the decision.

The interior of a Covenant vessel was familiar, but entirely unexpected given that her last memory had been on the once human held world. And the sense of urgency undertaken by the rush of shipboard personnel that passed by her, and the array of weapons clutched in their hands was quite alarming, even to her concussed faculties.

The young sangheili smacked the side of her head, bringing sudden clarity to the muffled speakers around her.

"…ower decks are crushed or venting atmosphere. And we have lost communication with Minor Ra'el and his scouting lance. Shipmaster Kelamee has reported a foreign life sign onboard. It is… human."

"No… it is not human."

Lumi froze upon that voice, recognized from many televised debates, and yet never heard in person. Nevertheless, for her, it was unforgettable. There was not a sangheili alive that did not know of Ju'das Rasumai, the greatest swordsman and warrior of their times. He was a legend amongst legends, a figure of such renown that not a single keep on sanghelios would ever openly stand against him. He was a born demon killer, their greatest weapon against the best the humans had to offer.

The female eased back in relief, even as she looked up to see the legend standing above her. She did not know where the demon had gone, but now that zealot marshal Rasumai himself had come forth, there was nothing for her to fear. He would make things right again.

She gazed upon the legend, his strapping figure bedecked in a special operations combat harness, and armed heavily with many tools of war. The great warrior turned from his conversation, centering his stern expression and battle worn features upon the young female as his fellow marshal departed in haste with an escort in tow.

His mandibles flexed, either in amusement or resignation as he spoke to her. "It would appear luck has favored you, young one. That or the gods, though I fear their voice has not been heard as of late."

Lumi was speechless, her capacity for words arrested as she came face to face with one of her greatest idols. Instead she sat, half drawn from her reclined position, listening intently to words whose intent was beyond her ken.

She baulked in awe as the larger than life figure rested a hand upon her head to convey his departing words upon her. "Rest now young one and find shelter. Soon this shall be all over, for good or ill."

She believed him, with fervent conviction and idealistic faith.

Whatever may come, he would save them.

* * *

A thick haze of gunsmoke choked the corpse strewn corridors of the Covenant battlecruiser, the acrid scent of cordite and the saccharine smell of disinterred offal lingering over Noble Six's most recent site of carnage as the spartan took a brief moment of respite to reload and rearm. He had a few minutes at most before they reorganized and sent the next wave in an attempt to dislodge him from his position, and each was more determined and organized than the last.

It was fortunate then, that this was simply a delaying tactic, as the idea of holding off the entire contingent of a CAS battlecruiser was rather ridiculous and bore no merit beyond a wild delusion. A single battlecruiser had the power and numbers to subjugate an entire planet, with thousands of battle hungry warriors housed in its internals. Against those kinds of numbers he was utterly disadvantaged, with or without his equipment and augmentations. Contrary to popular belief, spartans could not accomplish the impossible, merely the improbable. If he'd possessed any expectations of survival, going against the totality of a Covenant battlegroup was strictly out of the picture. Considering otherwise, this was to be the greatest triumph of his career.

Grabbing the armored collar of a sangheili relieved of a significant weight above the neck, he dragged the headless carcass across the length of the hall to the intersection he had made his stand, adding it to the increasing height and width of his rough-and-ready emplacement. The spartan waded through the blood without care, the fluid pooled up to his shins and possessing a rather unpleasant color as the varied hues intermixed and swirled below. Concentrating intently, he disregarded the irritating sloshing sound the liquid created as he arranged his battlements with an artisan's eye for detail.

He'd have preferred sterner fortifications, piled sandbags or a solid concrete palisade, something more suited to the task than hastily layered bodies. But a craftsman had to work with the tools at hand.

Thankfully he needn't endure the wait much longer, his machinations were in place, leaving him with the rare pleasure to admire his work. All that was left was to keep the enemy distracted, keep them from thinking about the marathon cruiser lodged into the guts of their warship, and stay alive long enough to enjoy the fireworks. It was the last part he was a little skeptical about.

Noble Six grimaced, the appearance of a stoic smirk curling the corner of his mouth as his motion tracker announced the arrival of the next assault. The spartan quieted his demons and crouched behind his cover, shouldering his rifle to conclude his last and greatest task, aware that no one would ever know. He, like the rest of Noble, would be hushed and forgotten, another filthy secret stashed under ONI's dirty laundry, and that was an end he could be okay with.

_Sorry Emile… _The spartan's grin soured into a wane smile as the first sangheili warrior appeared to lead the charge. He cut it to size both promptly and literally, scything its legs out from underneath it with a fusillade of 7.62mm FMJ. The alien dropped, screaming as its lifeblood flooded from the pair of stumps jutting below its waist. Six switched targets to its entourage of grunts and put them down before their small brains could even realize what was happening. The saurian still breathed, but he saw no reason to waste ammunition when there were more enemies than bullets. The corridor grew silent, but for the pitiful howls from the alien amputee writhing on the floor. Though it did not last long for the next group to charge in and start the cycle all over again.

The spartan sighed and prepared himself for the end.

_The likes of us were never meant to be remembered._

* * *

Ju'das stepped off the lift into a scene of anarchy and could only shake his head in bitter resignation. The saurian marshal gained the first few steps into the corridor before pausing in an attempt to drink in the utter chaos and lack of discipline upheld by the Covenant's finest. In the distance, a great length down the winding, spacious halls of the battlecruiser, he could hear the furious sounds of combat, the rapid staccato of a primitive human weapon, and the wraithlike pulse of energy rifles.

The zealot stepped aside as a trio of heavily armed minors thundered down from a sloped passageway to his left, joining the mass of warriors clogging the narrow intersection leading to what was undoubtedly a slaughter.

And he wondered, over the sounds of dying soldiers and the echo of shouts blinded by zealous hatred, how the Covenant had come to this, how they could have fallen so far from grace. Their creed had once stood for something noble, striving for an ideal that there was some grand purpose behind their existence, and to bring harmony and virtuous devotion to the galaxy. This war had been quick to crush the delusion. In the years he had not witnessed any divine intent guiding their hand, merely the covetous whims of sycophants and corrupt politicians, and it was his brothers that died to sustain this corpulent legacy.

The irony for Ju'das came in the realization that he found more honor in the humans' resistance against extinction, than the questionable goals of his own people. There was little purer than a fight for survival, particularly one that had been as tenacious and spirited as the efforts of the humans. He had seen them make sacrifice after sacrifice, committing their warriors to hopeless last stands and condemnable maneuvers simply to buy time for their non-combatants. When faced with such selfless determination it was difficult to see himself as the hero of his story. Warriors with honor did not take the lives of innocents, nor should they derive pleasure from such reprehensible acts. Yet honor it seemed was a dated philosophy to the modern sangheili.

"Great Marshal!"

Thoughts of the dubious nature of the present forgone, Ju'das shifted his intent to the welcomed acquaintance of the stout creature that waddled up to greet him. Though seeing the little unggoy here at this particular location made him… uneasy.

"Minor Nipnup." He returned the greeting kindly, raising his voice a fair margin to overcome the heightened noise of battle up ahead.

The young unggoy seemed smaller than usual, his squat frame hunched over under the weight of an emplaced weapon mount, the other member of his species behind him carrying the cannon itself. Nevertheless he displayed the same exuberance and eager to please nature that had first caught Ju'das' attention and so enamored him with the stout but faithful unggoy.

The field marshal studied the guileless, cheerful disposition of his short statured friend and felt the beginning of a dark, cold feeling settle in his primary heart. "You intend to join the battle?"

The unggoy shrugged complacently, though the action seemed somewhat comedic with the heavy weight he bore on his shoulder. "Orders is orders." He answered with humble simplicity. "Such is will of gods, as you say Great Marshal."

Ju'das nodded silently, unable to find the resolve within to audibly agree with Nipnup's answer. Not for the first time, and perhaps not for the last, he was of disagreeable sentiment. The sangheili mused for a brief interlude, before he made a decision that went against the very values of his religion and his society. He kneeled low to the height of the stout creature, placing a reassuring hand over the unggoy's shoulder as he mustered his words.

"Perhaps so, but this day the gods have a different plan for you, young Nipnup. I have a task of immense import and you are the only one I can trust to see it done."

"You speak true, Grand Marshall?" The unggoy asked hesitantly, the gleam of expectant optimism untarnished and hopeful in the eyes of the diminutive son of Balaho. "You have impor-tant task… for Nipnup?"

"I do, young warrior." He assured the small creature, though his internals twisted and churned at the lie he forced from his mandibled jaws. As it was the first lie he ever told, he was disturbed at how easy it had been made. Nevertheless he would not see this fledgling being be led to a slaughter for a war he was too naïve and fervent to understand. This young, frail unggoy was the embodiment of all that was good about the Covenant and its values. Nipnup deserved a better fate than to be used and discarded. And perchance, so did others. "There is a young female of my species in the hanger above us. Find her and keep her safe until this crisis is averted."

"Of course, Great Marshall!" The Unggoy spluttered reverently, carelessly discarding the mounting on his shoulder. It bounced once, before landing on the foot of the hapless individual behind him. What occurred next was a rapid exchange of high pitched barks and squeaks as they argued in their home language.

Though he did not wish to admit to himself, the interaction was amusing to watch and was a welcomed reprieve from his darkened thoughts. Ju'das ushered the stout creature and its companion along on their false assignment, content that he could at least do some good in these dour times.

Though, with Nipnup's departure he was forced once more to contend with the predicament that awaited him. Through the discussion the sounds of battle had not lessened in ferocity. Down the corridor more of his brothers died fighting a beast that possessed no lack of determination and bore a righteous rage that might very well be deserved.

Heresy lay in consideration of such an admission. To validate the monster's rage would be to admit responsibility to an incalculable extent of injustice imparted upon it and its species, to bring in to question the very nature of their religion. Yet he could not help but question the will of the gods, or perhaps more accurately, their instruments.

Ju'das decided with grave severity and a foreboding sense of inevitability… that this day he would serve the gods.

Not the prophets.

"Marshal Rasumai!"

The first to notice his approach was a young sangheili warrior perhaps no older than one solar cycle from adolescence, the bright blue of his untarnished combat harness further denoting him as a minor yet to earn his colors in battle. The unblooded's eyes were slightly widened as he looked upon a figure he had only heard rumors of in his days as a youngling.

Ju'das passed him in silence.

Several others soon noticed his arrival, each offering reverent greeting, from the youngest warrior to the oldest veteran. Each was summarily, if politely dismissed, as he traveled down the corridor lined with wounded and fresh blood eager to earn glory. The cacophony of combat growing more intense with each passing step, he could feel the surety his presence provided, confident that he would bring them salvation from this calamity.

However, this time he did not come to wage battle against a foe. This time he had come to talk, and perchance more notably, to listen.

So it was, as he rounded the corner unto a familiar scene of hapless carnage and death, that he laid eye upon his foe for the third and final time. As he feared the abomination did not suffer its end without due compensation. Bodies lay piled in heaps with no regard to station or status, the non-porous alloy of the floor allowing a marsh-like quagmire of fluids and entrails to swell in the tide of butchery. The harsh discharge of human weaponry lingered in the air, above even the scent of blood, the sheer magnitude draping a thick cloud of smoke over the battleground.

First appearance spoke of a favorable exchange at the hands of the human, but a second glance was more telling. Even a warrior like the abomination could not repel such numbers forever. Much of the blood that coated its battle scarred and scorched combat harness was bright red as it seeped from the blackened cracks in its armor. Yet in spite of its injuries the human warrior had the remarkable temerity to stand tall, its posture unbroken and its tenacity unbowed. The demon clutched a rifle in steady gauntlets, the implacable visage of its faceplate marred by the jagged fracture split down the center. It turned its splintered gaze upon him, and drew its weapon forth, seemingly ignorant of the great harm aggrieved upon its person, ready to fight to its bitter conclusion.

Ju'das would admit, though only to him, that there was some satisfaction at seeing grievous harm inflicted upon his adversary. And though he wished heartily to strike it down in revenge for the dead, he was reminded that discretion was the better part of valor. After all, a wounded beast fought twice as hard. With a wave and a curt command, the next assault force withdrew, with significant reluctance.

"I would have words… demon." He spoke slowly, raising his arms to show open palms as he stepped closer. The Covenant warriors at his behest seemed confused if the whispered utterings behind him were any indication. Yet his rank and prestige proved to be weighty enough to quell any sentiment of doubt. Trust was a valued resource, when placed in the proper hands.

The abomination's reaction was equally dubious. Its weapon lowered from head to chest height, and he could feel its bloodlust lessen by the smallest of portions. It appeared ready to sell its life, but perhaps sensing the encroachment of its expiration, was at the least willing to entertain what it must have seen as an unlikely delusion.

"_Diplomacy?" _It hissed softly to itself in a dark, sallow voice that was one part amused and thrice more enraged at the lunacy of his request. _"This war has passed the chance for words." _It snarled with a censorious scorn in its tone that was nearly as sharp edged as the blade it had used to cleave his throat on their last meeting.

The abomination radiated killing intent like the exposed coils of a primitive human reactor, and its weapon snapped upwards to fire. Ju'das remained unflinching, even as he heard the soldiers behind him ready to turn the small length of hallway into a warzone. Instead the zealot marshal watched patiently as his plan reached fruition.

The human, its bearing once proud and imperious, wilted as it staggered and collapsed to its knees. The fluid pooled around it, once a collage of varied color, now having taken a predominate shade of red as the warrior at last capitulated under the severity of its many accumulated injuries. No matter ones resolve or strength of character, this was a moment that surpassed mind over matter.

Time, unlike before, was now Ju'das' ally.

It would do what no warrior of the Covenant had been able to.

"Diplomacy is not my intent." He assured the abomination in a tone softened to in a way that might have almost been cordial curiosity, as he studied the human straining to keep its weapon leveled upon him even as the essence of life drained from its body. "I offer only to make your passing… peaceful. Consider this a professional courtesy, from one soldier to another."

The demon snorted, the sound ejecting from its throat in a wet and gargled gasp that spoke of damage deep within. _"Never thought I'd meet an alien with a sense of humor." _It rasped vulgarly. And though hostility was evident in its tone, Ju'das was startled to see it lower its weapon, the rifle slackening in its weakening grip.

It shrugged, allowing an unusually smug chuckle to erupt from battered lungs. _"Don't matter anyways. You have lost, split lip." _

Ju'das grimaced at the recognized insult created by the humans, but reined his irritation in favor of curiosity as he once more acknowledged the environment around him with a solemn wave. "True many have fallen, but I see no loss here."

The reply he received was non-verbal but nonetheless alarming as it relinquished its weapon, the worn rifle disappearing into the spilled viscera with a loud splash as the abomination regarded instead the tactical machine interface on its forearm. Whatever it saw must have been significant, as all resistance and strength left its battered frame and the human sagged heavily in acceptance. _"Not long now." _It spoke in a subdued, introspective tone that was to the sangheili's confusion, turning its battle-scarred helm to match him stare-for-stare.

"_I suggest you make peace with your gods, sangheili. Consider this __**my **__professional courtesy." _ With swift action the demon tore its helmet from its head, letting the armor piece roll from loosened fingers to join its fallen weapon. The visage of the human was one of youthful rage, pale and bloodied, with eyes that burned with unshrouded fury. The male spat at Ju'das feet, his lips curled into a quivering snarl. _"From one monster to another."_

Ju'das was, for the first time in many long years, wholly surprised. This abomination was… young, even for the relatively short lifespan of a human. The marshal was not well versed enough to guess age with any reasonable accuracy, but he was competent enough to know that no creature of such aptitude and ruthlessness should be so fresh of face. The hairs growing upon the human's pastel appearance, and the scars that spoke of violent conflict, seemed out of place on a visage that spoke of perhaps two decades of short life.

Were all the greatest warriors of the humans' just younglings? Was it really this whelp that had killed so many of the Covenant's best? That had beaten him in single combat and even now was immersed amid a field of corpses? Ju'das stood amongst the broken and the dead, what was clear evidence of this undeniable certainty, and struggled to accept the truth that had been given.

Ju'das watched, as finally, the human fell. And he found no comfort, no satisfaction, in this long awaited resolution.

There was only silence, but for the sopped thump of the human's armor upon the bloodied deck.

Behind him his warriors cheered, and a great raucous revelry arose in the demise of the last defender of this world and the recognition of another total victory over the unclean, and one more step upon the path. The sangheili instead looked upon the motionless form of a child pressed into service to stave off the threat of annihilation, a life sold to oppose a genocidal crusade of intolerant piety.

Ju'das realized, for the first time in his long life, a life served with unquestionable belief and righteous faith, that his was a hollow victory.

And then his consciousness vanished in a flash of screaming light.

* * *

_AN: This is a little shorter than I might have liked, but I wanted to wrap up the Reach story arc without making a huge affair out of it. There was about maybe three thousand more words of content I might have been able to pad it up with, but I felt that's all it would have been good for. Nor did I want to linger too much on the penultimate confrontation between Ju'das and Six. I figured it best to keep short and sweet and felt that to drag it along would ultimately be an unrealistic expectation. After all Six is a spartan and I doubt he'd be particularly chatty to an elite, even at death's door. I also wondered what a sangheili warrior might have thought, upon learning that the demons were actually just children press-ganged into military service. Six is roughly canonically 20, maybe 22, which is quite young for a mass murdering supersoldier. _

_Also as you might have noticed his arrival into Lylat will be drastically different than the original concept. And much of the original plot has been scrapped and or overhauled, as you can probably already tell. Rest assured, this is not the last you'll see of Ju'das and Lumi, after all it'd be a shame to build up two characters just to dump them so early. _

_Anyways, the next chapter will be where the story really starts. And hopefully I can get it out before too long. I still have to finish the current chapter of Until it is Done, and polish out the rest of the chapter for At Duty's end. If all is well I'll be able to release either update within a reasonable length of time. _

_PS: The support from the reader base so far has been overwhelming. Your input on my works and genuine interest goes a long way in pushing me on__ward and I am as always utterly humbled by your attentions. _

_Till next time._

_Drake_


	4. The Best Laid Plans

Death was not what Noble Six had expected. At first it had been darkness and oblivion, and for the briefest moment he had felt… peace, a solemn acceptance of dark stagnation. The spartan reckoned he wouldn't mind an eternity of this. Certainly it was preferable to the oft analogized hereafter of fire and brimstone he had at first anticipated. Given his history he had no other expectation. Yet it seemed this was not to be the conclusive end he had awaited. As quickly as he came upon this sense of serene solemnity, it was taken and thrown upside down in a kaleidoscopic surge of relentless assault on his returning senses.

The incoherent screams of alarm klaxons and the searing flash of emergency lighting was a rude and unexpected awakening for the surviving member of Noble Team as he suddenly regained consciousness with a rushed intake of breath, and a hacking cough as he expunged bloodied phlegm from battered lungs. Fresh adrenaline surged through his body as the spartan-III bolted upright from his sprawl in the blood and gore left in the wake of his supposed death, bewildered at the blurred corridor of the Covenant battlecruiser and the mangled dead. If still doubtful of his continued life, the deep ache he felt from his wounds and the presence of the slaughtered and very deceased aliens around him was sufficient enough to reaffirm the realization that he was still amongst the living.

The spartan fell forward as his fatigued system flooded with fresh chemicals, wiping the polychromatic slurry of variegated viscera from his face as he sent a gauntlet rummaging through the carnage for his helmet. It was with great effort that he forced down the bubbling mass of questions he felt thundering at the precipice of his attention. His attempted suicide had been abstained by his best guess, though the reason for such an abstention was as of yet beyond his discovery. Now was not the time for such distraction the spartan decided, clearing his vision with one final drag of a gauntlet across his eyes to fully reveal a scene of utter devastation.

The corridor, dark but for the flashing emergency lights, was scattered with bodies. Dead in all aspects, but a few he hazard might have only been rendered unconscious as he had been. He imagined that upon waking, they would not be nearly as calm and coherent as himself. The idea of a not inconsiderable number of ill-tempered and fanatical aliens regaining awareness while he was so plainly disadvantaged was not a pleasant consideration. In that he thought of the kukri sheathed to his left pauldron, but there was considerable risk of rousing the currently cataleptic throng if he tried any knife work. And in his current condition, he had doubts in regards to his survival. True that had not been a cause for concern for him previously, after all death had been the intent of this entire spectacle. Yet now he was not so eager for an end, at least not until he was able to figure out this new curiosity.

So it was, burdened by such grave contemplations, that the spartan felt a surge of relief as his probing fingers brushed against a hollow, semispherical mass in front of him. Grabbing it by the rim he picked up his helmet and turned it over to empty. A thick deluge of unpleasant fluid spilled from his helm and after a moment of consideration of its wet interior and the visor now adorned in a bold fracture splitting down the center, the spartan forewent his initial plan and secured it to the mag holster at his waist.

He found his MA37 not a foot away from him, the butt of the rifle's stock barely visible in the pool of fluids collected by the sloped delineations in the deck. Gripping the weapon by its rugged frame, he pointed the barrel toward the deck and gave it a rough whack with an open palm, watching as a spurt of blue blood spewed from its rifled maw. The spartan brought it close to examine, and after quickly cleaning the charge handle and loading a round, he aimed at the closest body and pulled the trigger.

The loud report of the weapon in the confines of the ship's corridor echoed through the silence, a reassuring and welcomed sound as he shouldered the battered, sodden, and yet still reliable instrument of war. Say what one might about utilitarian manufacturers, the reliability of their product was indisputable. Human weaponry was designed much like their vehicles and starships, and could be prescribed to three modest schools of thought, simple, reliable, and powerful. And while the Covenant may have had a fixation for pretentious artistry with their bulbous starships and sculpted tools of war, and while their equipment was undoubtedly of an alien sophistication currently unattainable by human technology, he'd rather kill his enemies with weapons forged by human hands.

The act had a fairly theatrical poetry that he rather enjoyed, made the task of slaying mankind's enemies that much more… satisfying. After all, there was nothing quite like witnessing what hollow point munitions could do to the varied biology of Covenant species.

But such thoughts were wandering and not fit for consideration given the nature of his immediate situation, and the spartan was quick to banish them in an effort to focus on the present.

Now, should the situation escalate even further than it already had, the odds would at least be somewhat impartial. The spartan brushed a gauntlet across his tactical harness as he lurched heavily to his full height, counting his remaining magazines and diverting a small portion of his mental processes to generating a hypothesis on his predicament.

B312 scanned the peculiarly contoured alien architecture of the battlecruiser's hallway and sent his mind to task in attempting to unveil just exactly why it was he remained alive. The oscillating shriek of the klaxons told him that _something _had occurred, whether that was a result of his plan, or an as of yet calculated variable, was a deduction that was too prepubescent to be forming. If it had happened as calculated, if this was the result of the makeshift bomb he had crafted from the cruiser's damaged fusion reactor and Shaw-Fujikawa drive, then by all means they should all be very, very dead. The Covenant battlecruiser, and himself by extension, should have been reduced to little more than free-floating atoms in solar winds.

If Noble Six could be confident of only one thing, it was that an event had most certainly transpired, and whatever it was had triggered unintended consequences. The spartan-III stood in the stillness of the alien corridor, the silence broken only by the rough interjection of emergency sirens, and wondered just how things had changed. He certainly could not stay where he was, he was after all still aboard an enemy ship full of fanatical religious aliens. It would only be a matter of course before he encountered ones that were not incapacitated. How he could change this fact however, was a solution beyond what he could presently devise.

Deliberating heavily on his next course of action, he detected movement in his vicinity. The spartan drew his weapon upon the figure struggling to reach the top of a nearby pile of bodies. Disbelief was the core of his emotions as he watched the battered but somehow still animated zealot field marshal drag himself to his feet, or so at least until several others boiled over.

The spartan struck immediately.

With a bullet-quick lunge, he grabbed the marshal by the collar of his combat harness and pinned him to the wall, spreading his mandibles wide with the barrel of the assault rifle shoved into his mouth. The spartan reflexively squeezed the trigger, full prepared and ready to splatter the wall with alien grey matter. But it was his immense discipline that prevented him from actually discharging his weapon.

Well that of course, and the influx of panicked words that suddenly emerged from the sangheili's comm unit in a broken garble of corrupted static.

"_Marsh… umai… what i… …r status? Are …still …bat effecti… …? Report…. …. crash…. surface…. world…. .assi …. ar… under assault….. unknown…. ….. determined…. be… … hostile… situation untenable..."_

The message repeated, in an even more broken and incomprehensible state, until eventually it petered off into distorted static. The spartan remained unmoving, attempting to decode the gibberish into some form of serviceable intelligence. Meanwhile his prisoner was silent, although he was uncertain whether or not to attribute that to the alien's unusual patience or the weapon currently lodged in his mouth.

As he pondered, the spartan felt his helmet vibrate at his waist, a moment of indecision passed before he shifted his body, keeping his rifle in position and using his left shoulder to keep the alien pinned in place as he grabbed his helmet and tipped it forward to read the flickering Heads Up Display.

What he then noticed was sufficient to give him considerable pause, his motion tracker surging with activity. And the little dots were neither the bright yellow of friendly IFF signatures nor the deep red of hostile sensor pings. He studied the swarm of white, anomalous signal returns meandering the narrow corridors towards their position and began to think. Judging by his calculation there was perhaps a minute before the unregistered IFF's reached visual and auditory range.

The appearance of such an irregularity, when measured with the recent string of inconsistencies that had been occurring so rapidly, was enough of a warning for the spartan to reevaluate his priorities.

Now, Six felt in an uncharacteristic moment of reluctant clarity, that for the first time in many years this was not the hour for his usual conduct. Something was at play here, a developing scenario that his instincts told him had changed the field of play. And perhaps it was the barest notion of insubstantial tolerance he felt towards this alien that proved to be the initial detractor. He was, after all, the most persistent sangheili Noble Six had ever encountered, and the first not to continuously spew religious madness from mandibled jaws. Or perhaps more realistically, it was his understanding that something fundamentally strange had just occurred, and the laws of reality as he knew them might not be the same as they had been before he had awoke.

Nevertheless the spartan's glare was hateful and cruel as he matched the shark-like eyes of the sangheili warrior that stared silently in turn, his expression remarkably calm considering the weapon jammed down his throat. The greater part of him wanted this monster to die, if for no other reason but the satisfaction it would give him. However, during training he had been often recognized as the greatest nonlinear logistician in his company, both during practice ops and academic courses. In those days of endless drills and brutal exercises he had learned a great deal about himself and what he was willing to do to ensure victory. And since then B312 had figured himself a survivor, by any and all means necessary.

It was true as well that he had no qualms with death, and if it was in the best interest of humanity he would not hesitate to meet his end. And for a moment, he thought that time had come, but the current evolution of events made the thought of his demise… intolerable. He could not die yet, not at least until he knew what was happening, till he had answers for his unspoken questions. And if his discovers probed to be actionable, something he could use, then he would prioritize returning to command, however that might have been possible.

Meanwhile, as he debated on his merits of his increasingly detestable prospects, the tracker flickered brighter in warning that soon his decision would have to be made regardless of his personal opinions, and he could hear movement in the corridor far to his left, the cautious pace of armored footsteps steadily advancing upon their position.

And in that moment, the spartan decided that he was no longer prepared to die.

"_Do you want to die?" _The spartan asked bluntly, waiting to see if his alien antagonist would share the same sentiment, neither possessing the time nor patience for the verbose rhetoric this particular alien seemed to enjoy. The spartan then waited, finger clutched around the trigger, until after an exasperatingly long stretch of inertness, the sangheili warrior slowly shook his head in the negative. B312 paused, contemplating the absolute irrationality of his decision and the sanity of his intellectual acuities, before reluctantly withdrawing his weapon from a creature whose species he had hated for more than ten years of bloodstained conflict.

His stomach recoiled at the very _concept _of sparing the alien before him, what was a being that propagated a genocidal campaign against humanity, responsible for the deaths of an incalculable number of human lives. Yet he was not so blind as to ignore the truth that he was only skirting a thin line between life and death, a line that was weakening as seconds passed. Pain was something he could ignore, a constant that had been rendered into an unimportant triviality for him, however the slight haze around his vision, and the weakness in his hands as he held his rifle told an undeniable truth.

Right now he had become a liability to his own success.

The mindless chatter of a grunt suddenly erupted from the corridor to their left, the alien babbling in its coarse language. Its tone seemed inquisitive, bearing the inherent confusion of its species.

And then it screamed.

The spartan flinched imperceptibly as the corridor erupted into violent sound, inundated with a sharp _snap-fizzle _he'd never heard before but instinctively recognized as the discharge of some form of unidentified weapon system. Silence preceded, broken then by several voices erupting into laughter. And then they spoke, in a lilting, foreign tongue, and Noble Six's decision was made.

The spartan fought viciously to restrain his frustration as he reached down and shoved a blood-soaked plasma rifle into the saurian beast's four fingered clutches, the act of arming his greatest adversary a cruel irony he certainly did not savor. The temptation in that moment to unload the weapon at point-blank range was… noteworthy, but it was to his immense regret that discipline won the day. He did not have to like it to accept it. And if he could use the damned alien then he would stomach the blow to his humanity, whatever remained. Survival was his prerogative, and so long as that goal was achieved he could endure his aversion.

The sangheili looked down at the item forced upon him, his twisting jaws whirling into what was perhaps a contemplative mein, before his grip solidified and he offered deferential nod at the towering spartan. Good. It seemed that the creature recognized their situation and was willing to allow survival to take precedence over personal opinion.

As satisfied as he was ever likely to be from a situation that was so utterly fucked as to be preposterous, Noble Six retreated from the alien to put space between them, and gestured for the hulking creature to take front. Regardless of his suspect sanity, the spartan was not so foolish as to place the damned thing at his back.

The alien nodded once more, seeing the wisdom of silence and signaled that they both withdraw to the mouth of the hall behind them, where they might wait and see the approaching party from a better position.

The concept of taking tactical advice from a sangheili he had already tried to kill on two separate occasions was a novel one, and the spartan pondered for a moment before ultimately agreeing, following after the zealot and trying to resist the urge to billet a round in the back of his exposed skull. He did smirk however, as the elite paused briefly before utilizing the piled corpses of its brethren as cover. Taking position further back and slightly to the left, Noble Six donned his helmet after a moment of reluctant thought, ignoring the repellently slick feeling of the advantageously placed padding as he reconnected its auxiliary battery to his Mjolnir's fusion reactor. The stutter of the HUD was then wiped away in the surge of power, restoring his supplementary combat systems with the soft trill of booting software.

He frowned when, as the tertiary HUD elements connected, his Mjolnir's shields did not join the listed series of reactivated systems. A curt glance at his armor did not reveal any serious damages that might have been responsible, which was both reassuring, and problematic. He was not exactly in a position to strip his gear and effect repairs, and he had no idea when next, if ever, that he might expect to receive such an opportunity. This left him in an even less savory position, and the spartan had to school his bubbling irritation in order to focus on more prevalent concerns.

The intersecting corridor in front of him and his reluctant companion flickered with new radiance as several separate beams of white light pierced through the crimson hue of the emergency lighting. The voices grew in volume, until distinct speakers could be heard, and as before, their speech was foreign, oddly lilting and yet somewhat… animalistic.

The sangheili in front of him crouched lower upon hearing, rifle readied in steady palms, and the spartan joined his preparedness, noting that whatever they were saying was not being translated by his Mjolnir's operating system. This meant, alarmingly enough, that they spoke in no recorded Covenant dialect, and study of the elite's response revealed that he did not recognize it either.

That alone was enough to trigger several alarm bells in the spartan's head, joining the cacophony that had been ringing since he came upon this madness. If he had been unsure of his rationality before, now his soundness of mind was all but contested by uncertainty. Nevertheless B312 remained silent and calculative as the first of the unknown force rounded the corner, his VISR system polarizing to cut through the bright luminary of the leading figure. And as he made out the outline, he was… confused.

The armored profile of the being was unnervingly human, even the segmented plate structure of the armor was somewhat recognizable. Unlike Covenant species, there was a distinct overlap between whatever creature this was, and the unmistakable framework of the human form. Yet before he could draw any hesitant conclusions, something flicked at its rear and all sense of normalcy shattered.

A thick protrusion weaved idly from its sprouted position at the creature's lower back, a tail the spartan eventually realized in weary hindsight, and after a moment of weighty skepticism. What features this new being might have possessed were hidden underneath an elongated red helmet with a reflective black visor, but whatever they may have been, Noble Six knew they would undoubtedly be as alien as the four mandibled jaw structure of his newest and most reluctant companion.

The spartan watched as, after a quick glance about the corridor, it barked a terse sentence, presumably to its cohorts who then filed in shortly after in a hurried lack of discipline that might have disgusted Noble Six if he had not been so focused on the weapons brandished by these new arrivals. Once more he was surprised, more so however with the continued familiarity. The rifle was… not unusual, its frame irrefutably similar to the weapon he held, although with a short cut stock and no visible input for a magazine or recognizable ammunition type.

Like the first of their kind, they wore a seemingly universal armor permutation, which was not so much a set of heavy plates over a uniform as a dedicated hardsuit not dissimilar to what he had seen in some ONI black projects and in ODST battle dress uniforms in the early years of the war, before supply had been unable to meet demand and less impressive options had to be considered. While interesting, that was not as disquieting as when he noticed that a few of their number did not possess tails, or did, but were of varying length and thickness, insinuating that there was more than one species present. The idea that he had stumbled across another multi-species hegemony was a rather sour one to stomach.

Almost immediately, a rapid fire dialogue erupted between them as they took in the wholesale slaughter. And as they bickered, B312 began to plan, though his thoughts were conflicted by the unknowability of the situation. Judging from the audible demise of a grunt before their arrival, he could assume some animosity between this new faction and the Covenant. But drawing such a conclusion was hurried and little more than wild extrapolation at best. The zealot marshal, judging from his intense stare and initial reaction, did not seem to recognize these new contenders for the spartan's ever expanding list of adversaries and Noble Six was uncertain as to whether to be amused or concerned about this turnabout.

Regardless of his opinion, this presented itself as a problem. At the moment he and the elite went unnoticed as the armored creatures examined the once embattled corridor, studying the bodies and rummaging through the assorted weapons and items left scattered after the fact. But there was no telling how long they would be overlooked. Nor could he be certain that this was the only foreign party aboard the battlecruiser. It was likely, from conjecture formed by what little information he had scrounged so far, that the ship could infested by these new aliens.

A sharp blast and flash of green light forced the spartan to duck low, thinking that they had been discovered and he readied to make his stand. Yet as he readied his weapon and brought it to bear, he found his worry to be unfounded.

One of their number, seemingly the first that had entered, took a step toward the molten hole it had just punched into the wall and warbled some unknowable sentence in a clearly impressed tone as it experimentally weighed the cooling plasma pistol in its left hand. It turned then, brandishing the weapon towards its companions and chattering in a rapid-fire diatribe of indecipherable gibberish.

Its fellows crowded around it, murmuring at the flaunted device, before hurriedly dispersing to acquire their own from the wide diversity of armaments lying in the bloodshed, callously shifting the bodies of the dead in their quest to acquire a toy of their own.

The spartan felt something shift at his side, and it was attributed only to his superhuman reflexes that he was able to catch hold of the sangheili warrior's neck before he charged out and revealed their position. Already weakened by his injuries, it was with monumental effort that he subdued the enraged elite without alerting the looting creatures with the violent clamor of abused metal. In that regard he had the klaxons to thank for masking the brief nature of their scuffle.

B312, aware of the immediate need for sound discipline, unsheathed the kukri he had taken from Noble Four and pressed it hard against the alien's throat in an unquestionable gesture. The intent behind his actions was clear. Regardless of his vulnerability traveling alone, he had no qualms with opening the damned thing's throat right here and now if it jeopardized his survival.

Once more his doubt surged as he questioned the elite's existence and its utility to his. Thus far it was proving far more trouble than it was worth. Better to kill it now, he supposed with an unacted shrug as he prepared to sanction the finishing blow.

"Please…"

A hoarse voice whispered underneath him as he readied himself for the act.

"I do not yet wish to die."

The spartan paused, the curvature of the kukri's etched blade cutting into the hide-like skin of the elite's throat, and he looked down at the somber countenance of his foe through a shattered visor. There was something in its eyes, a comprehending clarity that struck a chord somewhere inside him.

Slowly, jerkily, the spartan pulled his blade away and removed his knee from the elite's chest. He sheathed the knife and sluggishly paced back, a flicker of a memory ghosting across his consciousness as he watched the alien rise to his feet, offering a tentative air of silent gratitude.

_Please…._

_I don't want to die….._

The translucent impression of familiar images danced behind his eyes before B312 forced the retentions down into the abyss of his unwanted memories, slamming the walls of his iron discipline into place and forcing himself to focus on the present. The spartan cuffed the elite on the shoulder, flicking his helmet to emphasize the empty hall behind them. Right now confrontation was inadvisable, and with the new objective to reach the nearest hanger, they need not yet provoke hostility.

After all, something told the spartan that soon enough they would both have their fill of bloodshed. All that remained to be seen in his eyes, was whether or not the field marshal would be on opposing sides.

For the sake of retaining some kind of normality in this increasingly incomprehensible mess he had found himself in, he hoped the damned alien would make that mistake.

XX-XX-XX

When Lumi returned to the waking world, it was with a keen sense of irritable familiarity. The female sangheili was growing rather tired of this apparent pattern and wondered as she sat up, how many times it would be before something in her head stopped working right.

And as she came to, upon the sight of several bickering unggoy standing over her, she questioned whether or not that had already transpired.

"I think we run yes?" One suggested nervously, the diminutive creature twitching timidly as it looked about the cavernous hanger. The crackle of weapons fire lit the air, the familiar pulse of Covenant weaponry combating the strange fizzle of something she could not yet identify.

The vast room was not as Lumi remembered, many ships had been torn from their cradles to lay in twisted heaps, with bodies interspaced between, their forms similarly contorted and broken as they lay unmoving. Yet, what perhaps was more alarming even over the devastation, was the warm yellow glow that had overtaken the purplish hue of the light crystals in their mountings, a harsh intruding light that shone in from the direction of the energy barriers that separated them from the harshness of space, or would have if not for the unsettling interpolation of natural light.

"No! Great Marshal entrusted this impor-tant task to Nipnup! Nipnup not break oath."

The sangheili scientist, now standing, fought a bout of nausea as she took in the dramatically altered environment. Her sudden rise unnoticed by the preoccupied, squabbling methane breathers, she shaded her eyes from the intruding light and listened.

She could hear the cacophony of conflict and pinpointed the source, of all places, to be worryingly close, although it was impossible to make out exactly where over the loud arguing of the unggoy. Lumi stepped away, leaving them behind as she searched for the source of the intruding noise, wandering far away as she honed in on the disturbance. As she drew near Lumi was just able to discern distinct sounds from the clamor, before the answer itself came screaming at her.

Lumi blinked as a bright red light traced across her peripheral, coalescing into a pearlescent beam of rubicund energy that flew right over her shoulder and slammed into the hull of a phantom still hovering in its moored grav field. The high powered lance of energy punched through its nanolaminate plating and gutted the shuttle from front to back in a luminescent detonation, the overpressure of the explosion throwing the young sangheili to the floor as a gout of purplish flame erupted from the transports side doors. Although frozen by the initial surprise, she was quick to spur herself to action in a scramble to get away from the now falling wreckage as it listed out of its containment field.

She barely escaped from under the tilting beast of metal as it slammed into the deck at her heels, chasing her off with a rapid pop of secondary explosions. Yet there was no reprieve as in her blind haste she collided with a small figure, falling over the unsuspecting unggoy in a graceless heap.

"Ah, there you is!" The little creature screeched happily in broken common as it waddled over and gently grabbed her by the shoulder. "Nipnup was to thinking that he had lost you, but gods seeming favor Nipnup today!" It continued to chatter at the concussed female as he and another arriving member of his species began to drag her behind the wreck of another phantom although thankfully this one was not rippling with fire and explosions.

"Nipnup was going to say, it too dangerous to be wandering." The unggoy chided the female sangheili, who even propped against the warped prow of a fallen transport ship, still loomed over its diminutive stature. "Many enemies outside, _very angry_, like buzzing Mud Wasps, zipping and zapping all about."

"Enemies? Outside?" Lumi groaned in confusion as she tried to piece her thoughts back together after the phantom nearly blew them apart.

"Yes, enemies. Not human, but still _very _mad. Shipmaster say they new, say nothing make sense, not stars, not planet, say to protect ship above all else. But Nipnup have impor-tant task from Great Marshal. Nipnup protect you!" He declared proudly, with a thump of a fist against his chest.

"Protect me? Great Marshal?" The words of an unggoy were hard to understand at the best of times, even more so now with all this _noise_. With an exasperated huff of frustration, she pushed away from the nattering unggoy and their nonsensical words. Her thoughts still bounced about in her head, disorganized and fleeting, unable to knit together long enough to form a coherent string of consciousness.

She looked outwards, towards where the energy barriers should have been, but were not. And she could finally see the drastic extent of their situation. The exuberant glow was indeed the byproduct of a yellow dwarf star that shone brightly above the gaping maw of the battlecruiser's main hanger section. The barriers were down, allowing as she could now see, the noise of outside conflict to be heard.

Lumi was able to just make out the uninterrupted canopy of a far off tree line, and as her attentions drew inward she could see a wasteland of uprooted plants and dirt, her analytical mind recognizing the wake of an orbital-to-atmospheric crash landing. Though, in truth it would not take anyone of significant intelligence to deduce the result. That was not so much her concern as the visible deployment of infantry and armor located outside the ship's hull, exchanging fire with an unseen force taking shelter in the jungle terrain.

That was her focus.

Not human, she recalled as the unggoy said, a possible reality considering the rare distribution of energy weapons in previous theaters. It was largely recognized that human technology had not progressed to the extent where large scale deployment of thermodynamic weaponry was feasible. And no self-respecting covenant force would dain to use such primitive tools, not since their mastery over plasmic matter.

Primitive, but more advanced than human technology she noted with concern as a trio of particularly vibrant lances of energy erupted from the jungle and gutted the housing of a Type-26 Assault Gun Carriage, or less verbosely, a wraith as the humans called it. Oft she preferred their simplistic naming conventions. Regardless of its extensive nomenclature, the onslaught of focused thermal energy had only moderate difficulty in piercing the mighty Covenant war machine. While the first shot was flattened and absorbed by the nanolaminate armor, the second and third were able to compound on the same point of contact and breach the crew housing.

The metal beast floundered under its mortal wound, toppling heavily to its left as power cut from its systems and the tank belched thick acrid smoke into the air. She watched in awe, as the vehicle plunged into the dirt of this alien world, casting a great spray of upturned soil before its propulsion drive overloaded and vaporized a small kig-yar phalanx, scattering body parts and molten metal for meters in all directions.

"Young Miss, is not safe." The most commanding of the unggoy muttered anxiously as it waddled over and tugged on her suit sleeve. "We must be getting you to safety."

While her profession might have involved walking battlefields to examine the technology of the Covenant's foes, she'd never been on one that was… active.

Seeing such callous death traded with such flagrant violence…

Lumi could not summon the words or thoughts to describe her feelings. She could remember the eagerness with which she listened to the stories of old warriors visiting her family's keep, often from a distance as such words were not proper in the presence of young females. Their tales had been of the beauty of battle, the pride of facing against worthy foes.

There was no glory or battle hymns, all she saw was horrid death and all she could hear were the screams of the dying and the harsh, guttural commands of sangheili war marshals as they directed the defense.

This… this was madness.

XX-XX-XX

Nipnup looked upon the muddied field of battle, unto the mindless barbarity of war, and sighed heavily to himself. He found no horror or fear in what was his gods-given profession. Unlike his brothers he was not afraid to die. If his purpose was to be sacrificed as a pawn, then he had resolved to the best pawn the gods could ever ask for. He would dedicate his very existence to proving the other species of the Covenant wrong. He would not snivel and cower like a weakling. Too many of his kin had fallen to such ignoble ends. He would show the filthy kig-yar that the unggoy were not just cannon fodder, and he would prove to the sangheili the worthiness of the natives of Balaho.

The Great Marshal, he saw worth in Nipnup, the only one of his kind that had ever bothered to see past his poor education and simple mannerisms. And for that the little unggoy was prepared to die for him.

So, the mission to oversee a young female seemed rather lackluster in comparison. Yet if it would make the Marshal happy, then Nipnup would do his best to see it through to the end.

The diminutive unggoy waddled close and reached up once more, this time firmly grabbing hold of the numbed female's sleeve. "Come… come…" He urged resignedly, leading her away from the sight and deeper into the relatively safe depths of the hanger. "Nipnup will protect you, he not fail The Great Marshal."

"Who is this _Great Marshal_ you keep jabbering about?" The sangheili female demanded heatedly, though she allowed herself to be corralled by the small creature.

The unggoy endured her ire placidly. He understood that this was her first time seeing the truth of war, and so he did not take offense at her petulance. She was young, brought up with stories of glory and martial pride. He had also been raised with such false testament. And he remembered his first battle well. It had been nothing like the stories told to him by his deacon. He could still hear the ragged breathing and numerous chattering of his blood-kin as they shuffled into the assault ship under the harsh gaze of their sangheili minder.

And he would never forget the hot lash of blood on his face as he watched brothers that had hatched from his nest, gunned down by the fire and fury of human retaliation as they were corralled into the pitiless maw of their weapon emplacements. And it had been in that moment, as the burning sting of primitive munitions lodged into his side, that he realized they had been used, tossed carelessly into a fortified position simply because they had been deemed to have no other purpose than to exhaust the supplies of their enemy.

It had been the Great Marshall that had pulled him from death, away from the ruthless barrage of human death dealing. And even though he knew that the Marshal did not remember the name of the unggoy he had pulled from the fire, Nipnup would never forget the one who saved him.

"Great Marshal is name Ju'das Rasumai." The unggoy spouted proudly. After the battle he had made sure to learn the name of his savior, and even as his sangheili commander beat him for his impudence for demanding of a superior officer, he branded the name of his hero into his heart. He had spent hours in the communal quarters rehearsing the name so that he could speak it fluently, although he would never dare utter it in his presence. This was the first time he had ever spoken the name in the company of another being.

"You mean to say, that your Great Marshal is _the _Ju'das Rasumai?" She asked quietly, her voice shadowed by the faintest tone of disbelief. "The one who had slain the human demon of _Polymous_? Who singlehandedly secured the allegiance of the kig-yar pirate queens? …Who masterminded the defeat of The Banished in numerous battles during the skirmish of the Aleian Rift? _That _Ju'das Rasumai?

"Yep."

"And he asked _you_ to protect _me_?"

"Yep, yep!"

Nipnup nodded eagerly.

The sangheili female's mandibles flexed in consternation, no doubt in awe at his pure awesomeness and at his worth to the greatest of the greats. A sense of accomplishment rose within him and he took a deep drag of methane from his breathing harness, chest inflating with pride at her unintended reminder.

The Great Marshal had given him a task and no matter the obstacle, he would not fail.

XX-XX-XX

War… an ancestral constant of society, the perpetual variable absolutely necessary for the advancement of civilization. The greatest reforms and most powerful of technologies were born of the conflagration, conflict the propagator of progress. And its foundries were fueled by the common people. It was a cruel mistress, no amount of sacrifice be it by the multitude or the individual, was enough to sate its depravity. And not even a person with the strongest will could outmaneuver inevitability.

The Empire was never going to win the First Lylat War. That undeniable truth had been recognized in the many detailed and lengthy reports submitted by the various military analysts, financial advisors and intelligence operatives in the years preceding its instigation. They simply could not match the increasingly vertical production capacity or the vast personnel pool of their ancient enemy. The math had never been in their favor. The feds had more planets, more shipyards, more leaders, more soldiers, more… everything.

They had been repeatedly cautioned that any attempt at combating the growing power of the Lylatian Federation would result in nothing more than a protracted defeat.

Yet it was that one word that they had been looking for.

Protracted.

After years of repression, left to fester and die in the toxic wastes of a failing prison colony, left to endure the remorseless whims of cancer and the ungodly rate of infant mortality. To live on poisoned water and withered crops and watch as your children wasted away in front of you…

No.

They might not have victory, but they were more than satisfied with bloody defeat. They would make the feds pay for the sins of their fathers.

To General Bloodmaw the war had been a way to strike back at those who had condemned his people to unending sorrow, to make them pay for the children they had stolen from him and the loss of his wife, a wonderful female, kind and beautiful, yet unable to tolerate the unrelenting callousness of their reality. Even if took a thousand of his own soldiers, he would ensure that even _one _of those bastards from the federation might wake up one day without a father, or a son, mothers or daughters, it did not matter, so long as they might understand the depth of his loss.

During the First Lylat War none of the Empire's soldiers had been fighting to win.

They had been fighting to hurt.

And after their eventual defeat, after their armies had been bloodied, and their fleets shattered, they disappeared, to lick their wounds and make preparations. Years passed as they scavenged, bartered, and seized whatever resources they could find, martialing their forces in wait for new opportunity. Right now they were scattered, spread across a dozen worlds and countless hideouts throughout known and unknown space. Their fleets parceled in quiet sectors and their armies dispersed amid major population centers. The Remnant learned where the Empire had failed. They might not be able to defeat The Federation in a contest of brute strength, but there were many other ways to fight a war.

Every day they grew stronger, joined by people escaping the harsh environment of their homeworld, and even defectors disillusioned with Federation rule. This was, after all, not a time where they could afford to be meticulous with their prospects. They had moles in fed government, feeding them Intel on mothball yards and old bunkers filled with military surplus. They converted, gathering the sick and the destitute, they provided care, they fed and nurtured, securing in full the continuation of their work.

Bloodmaw did not bother to hold lofty expectations of ever really defeating The Federation, certainly not now. Their military leader was far too shrewd and experienced, cut and molded by the first war and honed to a sharper edge against the efforts of his insurgency. Such a fine tactician, with the quality and quantity of resources at his disposal, would be a hard foe to counter. And there was of course the Starfox team to consider, a mercenary company only in name, with an unshakable allegiance to Federation leadership.

They were no more mercenaries then he was a father.

As far as he was concerned they were just soldiers with higher wages and circumspect autonomy.

Without their interference he could have been confident in the possibility that they might be able to turn the tide. But through the years his undercover assets had been vigilant in their duties, and the reports they submitted were… less than favorable. Starfox's piloting skills were legendary, renowned far and wide as being the best pilots in the entire Lylat sector. And he was not so prideful as to ignore the reality, despite its fantastical nature. It was easy to question how a handful of pilots could possibly be as credible a threat as they were, but he had seen the material, spent countless hours watching and thinking and planning. There was an… art to their flying, a level of coordination and effortless synergy that seemed almost supernatural.

Alone they were a considerable threat to everything he had worked to build.

Starfox, with the resources and leadership of the Federation presented to him an insurmountable obstacle.

And now there was… this.

The remnant general studied the holo-table nestled deep inside his underground fortress on Fortuna, hidden from orbital scanning technology by the dense stratum of an unexploited copper deposit. The tunnel network was extensive, spanning more than a hundred kilometers under Animus, the world's largest, and most tectonically stable continent. It had taken months of work and thousands of hours of labor, even with the most modern excavation equipment and the latest in plasma drilling. Past the first layer of tunnels designed to be indiscernible from natural formations, and under a false stalagmite with a keypad lock holding a twenty digit code that changed biweekly and was known by only his most trusted officers, lay hidden the real depth of their efforts.

Barracks, infirmaries, motor pools, and even a launch facility nestled in the mouth of a waterfall, housing more than three thousand soldiers at any time with enough food and supplies to last for years in a siege. Too deep to crack with orbital bombardment and too well ventilated to force suffocation. If they were ever uncovered, it would be a long bloody campaign to root him from his operations here on this world. And even so he had more than a dozen plans to ensure his survival.

Yet none of his strategies had accounted for this.

Bloodmaw grunted to himself, scratching his scaled chin with an idle claw as he mused on this most unexpected of developments. He could not have predicted for an alien warship to fall on his head. But this was not altogether a bad thing. What most considered being calamity, he had learned to take as prospective opportunity.

The reptilian brought his attention back to the strategic display, shifting aside his concerns and dreams of vengeance. He continued to study the reports streaming into his station, reading the information packets sent by his officers and reviewing the footage sent to him in real time from various squad-linked tactical networks. His eyes, trained and honed by a thousand battlefields, sifted naturally through the chaos of rushed reports and the unreliable nature of soldier-portable recording devices, gathering and assorting the surge of information into viable intelligence.

He looked back to the initial scout reports as well, those formed after they had made contact with a roving patrol of the enemy not far from their crash site, and factored it into the plan steadily taking shape in his mind. First contact had been quite brief and no less informative. These creatures had proven to be incredibly hostile, engaging his recon units without hesitation or regard to the gravity of the situation. But that was almost expected. Bloodmaw had long grown used to unwarranted enmity.

He was more concerned with interpreting what little information he was able to gather so that he might formulate the appropriate plan to handle this situation. As it was, this was proving to be an issue even more complicated than his first predictions had projected. These… _things_, were proving to be equitably troublesome. Initial intelligence indicated a strict hierarchy amongst the enemy that was discernable despite the scarcity of information. It appeared that height was directly correlative to both command and tenacity in battle. These larger creatures seemed more shepherds than combat leaders, guiding their subordinates in a way that reflected their role as something akin to fodder, or a shield of flesh, though he was somewhat repulsed with the idea he could not deny its affect thus far.

To further complicate, enemy command elements possessed some form of personal shielding technology, an application of a ship mounted system that neither The Remnant nor The Federation had been able to produce in a portable capacity. Even more alarming was the realization that their weaponry utilized some form of plasmic energy that nullified modern armors entirely.

He had been quick to realize that in a one-to-one engagement they were technologically disadvantaged and from what video records could show, engaging the larger creatures in hand-to-hand was outright catastrophic. Thus far in the opening hours of this battle it was owed solely to their poor utilization of infantry tactics that he had been able to contend with these aliens.

With a thought he withdrew his preoccupied hand and swept it across the display, pushing up the forward skirmish elements of an armored division. Though lightly armored to degree that enemy handhelds could penetrate their plating, G-diffusion drives gave them the ability to hover over rough terrain, allowing the column to traverse the nearby hilltop and bring their anti-infantry cannons and rocket systems to bear on the enemy fortifications.

The jungle topography played to their advantage well. His soldiers had been training in the environment for months, running exercises and drills in the very same trees and river valley low lands inhabited by their adversaries.

Tapping another icon, he traced a path into the northeast, knowing that the wireless uplink would relay his instructions to the unit of sharpshooters in the form of a waypoint atop the nearby ridge. They had standing orders to single out the largest aliens. Cut the head of the snake and the body would wither.

After all, the age old adage was universal, even for aliens.

Bloodmaw watched as his orders were carried out on the display, various unit icons maneuvering across the holo-map in real time. He studied the deployment of his frontline, at the ever updating list of wounded and dead as it was depicted on the table, gauging the cost-return ratio with calm prudence.

And upon conclusion of his analyses, nodded to himself, returning a claw to the incessant itch under his chin.

The local humidity played hell with his scales.

The enemy was numerous and powerful, but they would eventually be defeated, by attrition if nothing else. Here, at the heart of his operations, he had the numerical advantage. And no matter how many lives it took he would have this unforeseen prize. These aliens and their technology just might be what the Remnant needed to finally pay the Federation back tenfold for their transgressions against his people. This could be the edge he needed to turn this delayed defeat into sudden victory.

Even so, he would have to work quickly. The Federation garrison on Fortuna, while minimal in size after its reduction to pre-war figures, was still more than capable of sending transmissions on the fed network. Federation satellite and senor technology was more advanced then what the Remnant was capable of replicating with their limitations, and Bloodmaw was confident that they were already aware that _something_ was happening. This ship had to come from somewhere after all, and the feds must have at least detected it entering the local sector, not the least its rapid descent into Fortuna's atmosphere.

He fully expected them to send an investigative task force, one he could not counter with the current resources at his disposal. Bloodmaw, planning for the potentiality of being discovered, had already drafted the possibilities in a similar scenario. By such estimates, he figured to have hours, maybe a day at most before the first elements of this force would start to trickle in from local patrol fleets and other nearby garrison forces.

In any other position he would not have had the chance to even prepare his troops before the feds swooped in. Ships had to be marshaled, resources reallocated, and diversions put into place to shift the attention of the ponderous beast that was The Federation military.

It was sheer dumb luck that the alien starship had crash landed directly atop their complex, thereby negating such extensive measures. And Bloodmaw was not going to let this potential windfall slip from his scaled grasp. They would crush these creatures swiftly and decisively, steal whatever technology that wasn't nailed down, and ensure that the Federation would find nothing but ashes.

To do that, more extreme methods had to be applied. The alien defensive line was remarkably resilient, and had thus far repelled even the most tenacious of assaults. Hundreds of his soldiers had already been killed trying to create a breach in their defense that might be exploited. There were six mechanized infantry companies behind the tree line, waiting for the opportunity to plunge a dagger directly in the heart of their emplacements.

But that even that was not enough.

Bloodmaw took in a deep draft of air, and hissed through his teeth.

"_Colonel Arkwright._" He uttered with a snap of his jaws, turning his enormous snout to the far more diminutive simian officer that had been waiting patiently, at a slight distance to his left side. His tongue flicked out to scent the air, accompanied by the usual amusement he felt at sensing the mammal's fear. Bloodmaw retracted the sensory organ slowly, trailing the thin, bifurcated slip of muscle across his teeth as he studied the ape's tightened jugular, contemplating for the briefest of moments, what it must taste like.

"S… Sir?"

And like always, it was the fearful statement of his subordinate that took him from his daydream, the recognition of the creature's sentience forcing primal instinct back into the depths of his subconscious. Bloodmaw sighed long-sufferingly, the sound coming out in a way that resembled a busted pipe or more acutely, the dissonance of a leisurely unspooling engine.

"_What is the status… of the infiltration units?_" The general made an effort to speak slow and deliberate, marshaling his wandering train of thought, and directing it carefully back to its proper station. Now of all times, he could not afford to cater to his lesser self. He would not prove those bastards back at central command that they were right in their discriminations. Reptilian species _were_ suitable in command positions. The ponderous, taciturn thoughts of a reptile were _not _biological limitations. They were _more_ than just their baser instincts.

With this... opportunity, he would prove all that to them and more, much more.

"Progress is… optimal, Sir." The simian replied hesitantly, swallowing audibly in the tense silence of the operations room. Around them, spread out in small clusters or seated at consoles, the rest of his command staff diverted a portion of their attention to the dialogue between their leaders. Most of the officers here had been working under the general for many years, and while there was a great deal of respect for his efforts and success against the Federation, fear was an even more familiar emotion.

Bloodmaw's gaze was piercing, and the ape wilted like a sun parched weed under his impassive observation. In turn, the reptilian native of Venom regarded the information his visual receptors were sending to him. He could _see _the rush of blood surging under his aide's skin, discern the _heat _of his body as fear forced his heart to pump faster and harder.

And his pits could almost _hear _the fluids thundering through the colonel's veins.

The general blinked hard.

"_Not good… enough._" Bloodmaw admonished, his lethargic drawl carrying a sinister undertone that most in the room were intimately familiar with. The reptilian scratched at a tooth with a claw, rooting for any lingering morsel of his last meal.

"Of course Sir, I'll inform them to work faster, Sir." The simian sputtered fearfully, his eyes reflecting the utter panic that flowed under his skin so… deliciously.

"_See that you do._" Bloodmaw warned, his thoughts finally reigned back to focus on the prominence of his current campaign, the giant crocodilian shifting his gaze back to the tactical map, and the fierce battle being waged. "_We do not possess time for dawdling._"

"_We will have victory this day, Colonel Arkwright. Be it at your hand… or mine." _

The simian nodded fiercely, all but bowing to the General as he retreated to the supposed safety of distance. "By your will, General, it shall be done."

He was not ordered so much as dismissed, by the wave of an immense, paw-like hand, and shirked away quickly to carry out his orders.

"_Nothing will stand in our way._"

Bloodmaw lowered a hand over the holo-image of the alien warship, and clenched a fist around his prize.

"_I will have… my vengeance_."

* * *

_AN: A little white lie from me it seems. While I have been working on At Duty's End and Until it is Done, I could not help but focus more on this. I hope that this larger chapter will make up for the rather terse one before it, and that this story continues to interest you readers. As this chapter will show I am trying to introduce more perspectives in the story that might better flesh out the setting and improve its over all quality. As always, if you are enjoying this or any of my other works, I am always happy to hear from you guys, and your input does much to keep pushing me forward._

_Keep the faith!_

_Drake_


	5. Of Mice and Men

Of Mice and Men

Noble Six was a spartan-III supersoldier, bred to campaign against a numerically and technologically superior empire of extraterrestrial religious fanatics striving relentlessly for the indiscriminate eradication of mankind. He'd seen and been part of heinous acts and persecution against his own species, willing and trained to go to any length to complete his mission. He'd nearly killed more targets in his service than days he'd been alive. And only most of them had been alien.

At a young age he'd been beaten, broken, and abused by the harshest instructors in the most unforgiving environments. He had spent countless hours studying military theory and underwent endless and rigorous training exercises designed to hone him and his fellow candidates into living weapons. He'd watched as the weakest amongst their number fell away like grass clippings, killed in brutal exercises or removed by unforgiving instructors that considered them unworthy of the mantle they were to assume.

And of the many, a mere three hundred were left at the end, three hundred who were yet still children, but only in body. And even that was not to last as they were introduced to the next stage of the project. Nine months they had endured changes prior to the final procedure, nurtured on regular injections of human growth hormone and varied supplements intended to prepare them for the process. The augmentations had been, from what little information had been offered to them, refined after the success of the spartan IIs. Once potentially fatal with numerous malignant defects, it no longer carried such a steep price and would, as the doctors explained, make them in fact superior to their predecessors.

This of course was a point of contention between the then current and past heads of the spartan project. But Six had never really given a damn about such triviality. Compared to the war at large, such infighting seemed… petty. Office politics were beyond him, and he had far more important concerns than irreverent debates. He had been trained to kill, and he strived to be an apex killer in a profession populous with consummate professionals. And for his effort he had been, amongst his third generation peers, hailed as an impassive instrument of finely tuned slaughter. It was this that had initially drawn ONI's attention, and what eventually spared him from the disaster that was Operation: TORPEDO. In his work for naval intelligence he had learned to navigate the backroom interoffice espionage, and in that he could attribute his survival to his entrenched impartiality.

It was a bitter irony, then, that he found himself to be inundated by contentious dispute, a fierce debate of his conception. In truth it was not uncommon for him to be his own greatest detractor. He had come to rely on his misgivings to keep his mental acuity sharp and focused. Playing various factors against himself in theoretical considerations was a means usually undertaken to pass the time between deployments or postulate on the enactment of certain organizational strategies in operational theaters.

But this time his criticism was not so much a personal assessment of government policy or strategic positioning, as his disquiet about his newfound tolerance towards alien species, particular the ones responsible for the spirited attempt at humanity's obliteration. Recently he was forced to make that particular distinction, as the proportion of extraterrestrial species seemed to have doubled within the past hours.

All of his training, the hardening of years of brutal warfare, enduring the spite of his fellow humans based merely on the circumstance of his existence, none of that had prepared him for the sheer absurdity that had taken control of his life, and the spartan now struggled to simply keep ahold of the reigns.

"Human!" Barked the very creature that was largely responsible for this newest indignity thrust upon his existence, "this way!"

Noble Six, a spartan-III supersoldier dedicated to a tireless war against a vast alien empire, a resolute bulwark against mankind's extermination, a merchant of death personified for all things inhuman, shouldered his weapon and followed his bitter rival down a small, unassuming corridor aboard this sprawling alien warship.

The sangheili was quite insistent in this alteration in their route, the third such deviation undertaken since they fled from these new creatures scouring the Covenant starship. The fact that the only living creatures they encountered thus far were these new contenders was reason enough for Six to be warry at the concept of a violent altercation. If they could handle Covenant forces in close quarters then they were a threat that could not be underestimated, which was why, as their options continued to dwindle, that his trepidation continued to rise. As a man that had just settled on not dying, he was not entirely enthused about his current prospects. Bleak was a word that could not accurately measure the severity of the situation.

The first hindrance in their journey had been in part to a blockage in the hall, which was in actuality the hall itself. What might have caused the collapse was something the spartan did not know, but stowed the information regardless. Anything that might help explain the where's and why's of his current predicament could not be overlooked.

The second obstacle was not as material, and had answered only one of his many questions, leading also to the existence of the third and most recent impediment.

Whoever these most recent aliens were, they were crawling all over this damn ship.

The spartan grimaced, brushing a thumb across the foregrip of his rifle, a nervous tick he had developed in the program that had yet to be fully purged from his system. He glanced in the opposing direction, towards the collection of lights sweeping across the increasingly narrow and oppressive corridors, and released a low growl that had been slowly gaining traction inside him at the continued onslaught of delays.

Patience was a virtue; one Noble Six had intimately come familiar with. Nevertheless these perturbing circumstances were beyond even everything he had been prepared for. He had been trained to fight exactly _one_ interstellar alien empire, subordinated of course, by various human insurgencies. He was, as it were, unprepared to effectively combat such an expansive and undisclosed threat.

And now it seemed his hand would be forced.

"_You said __**that**__ was our last chance to get to the hanger." _

"We will just have to find _another _way." The zealot marshal assured him in a deafening whisper, though judging from the inflection he was not entirely confident. "Perhaps if we turn back… maybe four intersections ago." The alien looked back uncertainly, only to hear the human scoff.

"_What, the one buried under eight tons of metal scrap?" _Six interposed hotly, his infuriated retraction ejecting from his pursed lips in a quiet hiss. Motion in his hands transferred, the spartan flicking the pin of the fire selector as he looked back down the path they had taken previous, now illuminated by several gun mounted lights and hushed voices. Backtracking had just become a nonviable option.

Semi

Auto

Semi

Auto

Semi

Auto

Auto…

"_Unlikely…" _The spartan muttered, a low but expressive sigh of irritated resignation escaping through the frayed cracks in his tattered patience. Tilting his weapon at an angle, he pulled back on the charging handle to examine the receiver and the metallic brass casing within, ensuring for the thousandth time that it was free from any biological… debris. Humanity's arsenal may have boasted universal reliability, but given the abuse his equipment had suffered through for months of relentless warfare on Reach, he would not be surprised if a little alien blood resulted in a sudden misfire. The MA37 was a rifleman's workhorse, mass produced and personally vetted by every soldier who ever held it. You could drag the rifle through blood, mud, and gore and it would still come out spitting fire at anything not dressed in olive drab.

This particular weapon, however, looked much like he imagined himself to appear, burnt, bloodied, and battered. Its titanium composite frame was warped and bent, the ammo counter flickered through a cracked screen, and its barrel was worn by repeated use. In the hands of a spartan it had been pushed to its factory limitations and he reckoned it still had some mileage on it.

The sound it made as he snapped the charging handle closed drew the sangheili's attention, and the lumbering bulk of the alien shifted as the marshal looked towards the source of the noise, then its cause. The saurian's mandibles twitched in facsimile of a grimace, although he did not appear all together troubled by the idea of confrontation, only perhaps, that it had taken this long to arrive.

Noble Six might not have given a damn if these new aliens killed the elite's comrades; in fact he was rather enjoying the satirical irony of this turnabout. Yet, it seemed, that his was an unpopular opinion and unworthy of likeminded consideration.

The spartan might have shrugged, if he cared to.

"_Through then?" _He asked tonelessly, knowing that given the option, his current meat shield had little desire to preclude hostilities. And for this one instance, he tended to agree, if only as a result that he could see no other feasible alternative. They had an arrangement of sorts, undoubtedly an atypical agreement, given their respective allegiances, but one born of necessity nonetheless.

Noble Six would refrain from wanton slaughter, provided he was given access to a suitable craft capable of navigation in hard vacuum. He doubted at the moment that there was anything left capable of slipspace travel. Theirs was an uneasy alliance, held together not by trust, but the unassuming reality of their situation. And he doubted its verity would hold if they encountered any living Covenant forces, or so at least another of its kind. Sangheili were remarkably stubborn, and it did not bode well on his chances that the first somewhat agreeable elite he came across had already attempted to end his life on several separate occasions. As luck would have it, and much to his satisfaction, they had not chanced upon any other survivors.

The elite nodded in agreement after a moment of silent calculation, and hefted the slim, abstract form of his plasma rifle. "We shall cleave through the heart of these beasts!" The marshal warbled to itself and pressed forward towards the unfortunate creatures blocking them from their destination, unawares as to the impending vehicle of fanatical rage that was soon to fall upon them. "Let these creatures not stand in our way, abomination!"

Noble Six stepped aside as nearly a half ton of pissed off saurian thundered gracelessly down the corridor, foregoing all sense of established sensible discretion he had strived so hard to cultivate. Damn sangheili were always a pain in the ass, even as allies it seemed. They had no propriety, no nuance. And now instead of a well-executed ambush, they were literally _running_ into a firefight, with no Intel and no cover.

"_Prick…"_ The spartan grumbled unenthusiastically to himself as he turned to follow with no small measure of reluctance.

_Well he might die…_ Six mused optimistically as he set his rifle stock against his shoulder, ready to enter combat with more poise than his antagonistic companion. He contemplated, briefly, on the significance of the impeding conflict, of the possible repercussions of engaging a previously unknown faction, at least until his inherent bigotry asserted itself and bolted down any concerns on the legality of his predicament. In his experience there was no such thing as a decent alien, and he certainly had no interest in being proved wrong.

Sticking to the shadows, a task made easier by the muted color tones of his armor, the spartan approached at a sedate pace, utilizing the split lip's impropriety to gain some kind of intelligence about his adversaries.

Truthfully it was, to some extent, humorous to see these aliens experience firsthand what it was like to suddenly come across a rampaging sangheili zealot. It was, also, somewhat interesting to be on the opposite end of the spectrum.

Just this once he'd allow himself to enjoy it.

XX-XX-XX

Sergeant Lanus _"Average" _Mcgoyle was, as his nickname implied, utterly average, had been all his life. Average grades, average job, average military career, average wife. He prided himself on being wholly mediocre. And, on the poison choked world of Venom, mediocre was nothing to scoff at. He endured the friendly teasing of his subordinates good-naturedly, and was proud of the moniker they'd bestowed upon him.

Sure nothing amazing had ever happened to him, but nothing horrible either. All of his kids were cancer free and his wife, while plain to the eyes of most, was the only female he'd ever want.

Sergeant Mcgoyle didn't ask for anything, and always followed orders to the letter, to the betterment of his military career and for his own survival. He never took risks, never gave a brash order and was not above considering retreat or surrender as viable options. Unlike most of his glory hunting peers, while ready and willing to give his life for a better future for his children, he would also prefer to be alive to see it.

This was why, as he led his unit through the dark corridors of a crashed alien ship, he wondered just how he had arrived at this point.

"_Takio…" _The short statured canid hissed the name of his corporal across SquadComm; fist clenched and raised high for his fireteam to see as he took a knee. Eight soldiers under his command replicated his movement as he waited for the ninth to make her way up the line.

"Yes Sergeant?" The lithe mongoose asked as she took position beside him, her usually twitchy expression shielded underneath the bulky HAZOP helmet they had all been issued for their mission.

Mcgoyle did not answer quickly, attempting again to pierce the darkness with his helmet's night vision filter. But as always, Remnant support equipment left much to be desired. As it was, he considered himself lucky enough to be able to see more than a few meters in front of him. He could have of course used the flashlights mounted to the side of his helmet and under the barrel of his blaster, they did exist for a reason, but he had not lived this long by being foolhardy. Caution was the word of the day, and these aliens would be more liable to see them by the flashlight beams long before he himself might take notice.

"Sir?" Takio whispered aside him, still waiting to learn why she had been brought up from the rear of the line.

"Take Reddings and Finhard and post up in the corridor behind us, keep watch for any sign of Unit Three, or any of these aliens." He jutted his head forward indicatively. "I'll continue up to the next intersection. If everything's all clear I'll pass the word for you to join us."

He hadn't volunteered for this operation, and he'd be damned if he got killed on a mission he didn't at least sign up for. Of the fifteen fireteams picked for this task, he was the only one that had not requested it. As it turned out, having a record for completing difficult missions with zero fatalities gave command the impression that he was not average, but actually _above _average at his job.

Now here he was, deep in the bowels of ship potentially _bursting_ with hostile aliens. He'd seen the footage prior to their insertion, he knew how dangerous the larger creatures could be. Sure these corridors were surprisingly commodious for a space fairing vessel, but that did not mean he wanted to stumble across one of those lumbering mantis jawed reptiles in close quarters. They seemed rather… fond, of melee. As it so happened he was rather fond of his limbs, himself. And just as rather have them stay attached to his body like they belonged.

He remained motionless, even as Takio grabbed her pair of sentries and withdrew. Mcgoyle glanced at the tactical computer on his forearm, intently studying the deep scan of the ship's layout, given so courteously from a hijacked Federation satellite. He reviewed his objective, an unassuming section of corridor roughly a kilometer's distance from his current holdup, and pat down his armor for the uncomfortable bulk of the demolition charge strapped to his side just under his ribs.

The idea of carrying a weaponized G-diffusion core was… unpleasant. Considering G tech was temperamental at the best of times, the fact he was transporting a device that had been purposefully jury-rigged into a warhead with the equivalent yield of twenty nova bombs… Well he wasn't exactly sitting pretty. Understandably, he did his best to ignore the knowledge that he was just one of ten other bomb carriers, and that any minute he might be reduced into his constituent atoms.

It was the job of the other five fireteams to, in theory, keep any lingering alien forces distracted and make off with anything that seemed technologically valuable.

"Sergeant, orders?"

A whispered voice over the squad's net shook him from his troubled thoughts, and he looked to his mission clock, realizing that they only had a half hour to complete their objective and make it to the rendezvous, or else they'd be left behind with plenty of time to have front row seats to the greatest pyrotechnic lightshow in decades.

"Move out." Sergeant Mcgoyle signaled his team to resume their previous pace, hoping that his uncertainty hadn't been heard in his voice. Right now all he had to do was cross a kilometer of tight corridors, deal with any aliens that might intercede, plant the device, and make the trip back to the LZ, within the next thirty minutes.

No pressure.

XX-XX-XX

Nipnup shuffled his claws nervously. The fight outside the ship was not turning in their favor. These not-humans seemed determined to win the battle. And even to the eyes of an unggoy it was clear that it would not be long till the not-humans had their way. The shipmaster had called in all the reserves, what sorry few they were, mostly the wounded or the more cowardly of his brothers.

Not that it made much of a difference.

The not-humans had every advantage, better positioning, precise and deadly artillery support, more soldiers than his poor education could count, and access to armored vehicles with clear lanes of fire. Not that a humble unggoy such as himself could ever hope to match the tactical superiority of his masters. The shipmaster must know what he was doing, even if Nipnup might have disagreed with his current strategies.

It seemed that the shipmaster was still handling this battle as if they were the superior force. He refused to give ground and gave no forethought to the terrain. While the wraiths were powerful siege weapons they suffered on the front lines, where the uneven topography slowed their hover treads and allowed the deadly accurate anti-vehicle weapons of the not-humans to focus down their targets with concentrated volleys. Nipnup would have kept them to the rear, where kig-yar sharpshooters could have relayed coordinates for coordinated bombardments.

Not that it was his place to suggest such a thing. Clearly the shipmaster had a plan that was far too complex for his primitive mind.

The front line was the greatest example. The shipmaster must have had a reason to direct his brothers in fierce counter assaults against securely fortified positions. There was magnificence to their struggle, though Nipnup could not see the purpose as they were cut down by focused attacks, and blasted by explosives. Surely they would have made better use as leaders, to bolster the morale of their lesser kin.

Not that he had the right to question his betters.

Nipnup twiddled his foreclaws anxiously.

The unggoy glanced at the young female behind him and his small group of gathered brothers he had brought together to help him on his quest. If things continued as they were, he wouldn't be able to keep his ward safe once the not-humans broke through the lines. And judging from the movement beyond the tree line, they were sure to be making their final push shortly.

He hummed thoughtfully, fretfully, as he glanced towards the fierce battle, and the battered hanger filled with wreckage and bodies.

They certainly couldn't head _towards _the danger. That would just be plain stupid. Nor could they just wait here. He doubted the not-humans would treat them well should they surrender. That was a risk he could not afford to take.

And as his eyes wandered, he came upon his solution.

If they could not go forwards or backwards, there was another option.

_Upwards._

XX-XX-XX

_The_ _Last Psalm _had once been a noble engine of war, participant to more than a hundred decisive battles through its lustrous service in the _Fleet of Particular Justice_. Yet war had not been its sole purpose. The battlecruiser had played host to San'Shyuum dignitaries and prestigious sangheili luminaries traveling through dangerous space on missions of peace and goodwill to the often conflicting species of their vast empire. The Great Journey had unified their peoples, but even with such a divine goal, there was room enough for internal strife.

The minds of the Covenant's many member races were as divergent as their biology, and each often had their own interpretation of the faith. Councilors were often needed to correct any presumption and ensure a lasting peace. This task was frequently helmed by lesser prophets from the _Ministry of Kindly Subjugation_. And _The Last Psalm _had been their favored means of transportation.

Ju'das had forged many fond memories aboard this vessel spanned across many pleasant solar cycles. Although his writ of service had been secured by the shipmaster of the _Journey's End _more recently, he yet favored his work for the ministry. And, in perhaps the greatest irony of his long life, it was this that had been what first opened his eyes to the… inconsistences of their faith.

Regardless of his persuasions in concern to his religion, this ship remained a high point in his long memory, a time he could reflect upon and not feel the dread harbinger of shame whisper across his mind, before the unspoken questions and doubt that could not be shaken.

So it was, that he decided the abomination could forgive him if he seemed somewhat overzealous in enacting his righteous purgation of the foul creatures that dared fleece his old home like a craven flock of filthy kig-yar pirates. If they so desired to pillage the dead and scavenge from the once mighty warship of stalwart faith, then he deemed it only fitting that they suffer the consequence of their heinous acts.

Despite the century of zealousy he had cast aside to create this tenuous alliance with the human demon, and all the conflicted thoughts such an action had been weighed upon his conscious, Ju'das was still well enough in mind to know that his encroaching action would be a detriment to the long term success of their ill begotten plans. Despite what the abomination might believe, discretion was a word that held familiarity. He had not lived as long as he had and ascended through the rank and file on pure fanaticism alone. Unlike most of his kind, he had a sense for the covert, to know when to play ones hand and when to fold, as far as the human saying went.

He had been a ranger long before he became a marshal, and in that field he had found a calling of sorts. His best work, if he were to be so bold as to claim. Nevertheless, in spite of all this, of all his experience and intelligence, the beating hearts of a warrior still thundered in his chest, and his pride, what little was left, could not stand this injustice, could not abide for a moment longer these filthy heathens that thought they could rummage through the carcass of this once mighty starship and not face violent and immediate repercussion.

Ju'das felt his blood sing and his hearts thunder as he charged down the corridor, a fierce cry for retribution pumping through his lungs as he thrust his plasma rifle towards the startled pack of alien creatures and clenched the haptic mechanism that controlled the violent function of the device.

At his command a flurry of semi-spherical blobs of plasmatic matter spewed from the containment nozzle, falling upon the panicked beings with merciless fury. To their credit they acted swiftly, if uncoordinated, and the vaguely humanlike weapons they held in their appendages snapped off a halfhearted counterattack.

The sangheili marshal let the blows land, confident in his armor's ability to protect him from harm. The munition, primitive at least to his eye, was nonetheless surprising, as his shield's absorbed several bolts of directed energy, much like the nascent devices the humans had most recently attempted to employ, yet not nearly as effective.

He let out a boisterous bellow at their folly as the once vast distance between him and his prey shrunk into less than a few feet.

And then he was upon them.

Ju'das reached out, snatching one of the creatures by the collar of its combat harness, and thrust it bodily into the nearest nanolaminate wall. Several short range impacts trailed up his side, but he ignored this as he watched, satisfied, as his quarry's helmet and then skull shattered under the immense force, spraying blood, bone, and brains against his shields.

He hoisted the headless corpse, loosening his grip before thrusting it to the fore, sending the lifeless husk to slam into one of its compatriots as another flurry of shots connected with his shields that chose that moment to expire.

Uttering a quick bark in surprise, taken aback by how quickly the primitive energy weaponry had overcome the highly advanced shields issued to officers of his ranking, Ju'das took a half step back as his rifle hissed and spat. Another creature fell over, an inarticulate scream carried over its helm's external speaker as it clutched its molten torso plate, the merciless heat of the plasma weapon devouring its internals. The aliens demise was quickly shadowed by another, although bereft of the previous' theatrics as the body merely slumped to the ground, its helmet a dissolved crater of twisted flesh and metal.

Yet despite the rapid casualties inflicted upon the creatures their counter assault remained startlingly effective and Ju'das grunted as a series of burning hotspots struck his rightmost side. And though mildly discomforting, his armor held and he was quick to return the favor, cutting down another pair with deadly accurate plasma fire, receiving in turn a fusillade of combined fire that nearly pushed him back with its fury.

The battle was brutal in the coverless corridor and at such short range there was no maneuvering out of the way. Ju'das could feel the reactive plates harden as his armor tried its best to absorb the fierce lashing of directed energy. Crafted with nanolaminate and rare forerunner alloys, it had been meant to endure incredible punishment. Even so overbearing onslaught of coordinated fire from these aliens was pushing his armor systems to the limit.

At that moment, as Ju'das stumbled backwards his combat harness scorched and perforated with cracks, he finally realized that he was alone. The abomination had not joined in his assault, perhaps hoping for his demise, or using his brashness as an opportune distraction to slip away and find his own way out.

Ju'das was… surprised. Not at the betrayal, but at how much it stung. He had thought the abomination, despite all of its detractions, to be honorable. He had thought it noble enough to uphold their bargain. But now it seemed he had been played the fool. Considering the depravity it had willing resorted to, this should have been all but expected.

Now he was going to die a most ignoble death.

The sangheili marshal growled in pain, his cheek burned by a passing burst of energy. Gathering his thoughts and shielding his head with a raised arm, he brought down another of the creatures with a burst of fire, avowing to at least sell his life as was proper for his standing.

And then one of the aliens screamed as a massive figured leaped forward out of the shadow, as if manifested by the sheer bitterness of his rage. A glint of metal flashed briefly before it vanished into the back of the alien's helmet, its exclamation of pained surprise silenced harshly as its visor splintered, the tip of a blade erupting out the front. The spartan, now fully revealed in the full glory of his blood soaked and battered armor, grasped the back of the dead thing's head and pressed forward, disentangling it from his knife. As the body collapsed he snatched its weapon out of the air and held it one-handed, hosing the corridor in bright red blasts of energy. The attack was much like the character of its designer, swift, brutal, and unrelenting. The remaining three creatures had no chance to escape, and fell quickly under the surprise assault.

Then there was silence.

Ju'das watched the abomination, hesitant, conflicted.

The human warrior glanced at the alien rifle, barrel still smoldering, and let it fall. Not a moment passed before he sprung into motion, crouching beside the closest corpse and roughly hoisting the body by the crater punched into its chestplate. The sangheili could see no empathy, no regard for the dead as he slammed the carcass against the wall and stripped its equipment with ruthless apathy. Disturbed by the human's abject indifference and furious single-minded drive, yet nonetheless intrigued as to the enigmatic nature of the spartan's mind, he continued to observe.

And he would be remiss to not admit that he was fascinated by the abomination's efficiency, reducing the alien's armor into its component parts within the span of a minute, stacking the plates to the side before lastly removing the corpse's helmet. Finally, at this juncture, he gave pause, and for a moment Ju'das almost thought he saw recognition in the spartan's otherwise unreadable body language. But he was certain he was just assuming, as these creatures were clearly alien not only to himself but to the human.

The sangheili marshal, gathering his bearing and tending the dull throb in his side with a tender hand, stepped over the bodies littering the corridor to stand in position to look over the abomination's shoulder, interested in seeing what manner of foe they now faced. It was telling then, how affected the human warrior was that he did not immediately threaten or otherwise acknowledge his presence so close to his unguarded back. Thus he followed the abomination's attention to the rather bizarre nature of these creatures.

The shape of its skull was not entirely unlike a kig-yar, elongated with a narrow, protruding jaw like the pack hunting animals that roved the forests of his family's keep, though disparate in that it was not covered in hardened scales but a fine coat of greyish fur like a doarmir. A pair of eyes, once sharp and keen, but now dull with death, stared past its long snout, and the structure of its jaws and teeth gave credence to the supposition that it was a predatory species, and therefore likely an aggressive, warlike race, unsurprising of course considering the past few hours.

The gleam of metal flashed once more, and Ju'das took an instinctive step back, startled as the abomination drew his knife across the corpse's throat in a swift, concise action that wasted no movement. Not a second passed before he plunged it into the pit of its arm and turned the body over to make another sudden incision on the back of its leg, just above the knee. Ju'das, jaws twitching in bewilderment, looked to the abomination as he stared at the corpse, now hemorrhaging blood. After a brief time, he nodded slowly to himself before rising to his feet and sheathing his blade in his harness.

The next few minutes became a lesson for Ju'das, one that taught him more about the abomination's true nature then he had ever thought to know. He saw no wonder, no curiosity in the human as he went through each of the corpses, examining the armor and weapons, then the bodies, before running a serious of prompt experimentations. The sangheili realized then, as the human propped a body up and fired a brief burst from his weapon into its torso where the armor was thickest, that he was attempting to learn the most effective means of murder.

Ju'das might have been impressed by his dedication to warfare, if he was not so utterly disgusted by his staggering lack of empathy. But then… Ju'das did not think he was in any position to render judgment. Was not this young human's apathy a result of his faith's desire for extermination? Were not the demons created as a desperate gambit to fight back against his people? Was he not himself responsible for innumerable atrocities against a species that's offenses were not but the simple crime of existence?

"_Center mass effective, three-to-five round bursts, tight cluster, optimal for penetration…"_ The abomination mused conclusively to himself as he stowed his rifle on a mag rail in his spinal plate, his tone ponderous, and taciturnly calculative. _"Arterial pathways identical to human biology… familiar vulnerability." _He shifted back, turning his head to the elite, expression partially visible through the fracture in his helmet's visor. A single eye, piercing blue with flecks of deep red, studied Ju'das with a fierce intensity, and the sangheili found it difficult to match his gaze.

It was a moment of uncomfortable silence before he realized that the human was sharing his analysis of their common foe, perhaps in some token gesture of cooperation.

Knowing that the human was fully capable of emulating the most austere of statuaries in his keep's temple, Ju'das inclined his head in the expected indication of gratitude, though he was uncertain whether or not he felt anything but loathing for this emotionless organic construct. He could see now, how a human could not only overpower him in combat, but prove to be such a singlehanded threat to the Covenant. He had interacted with associated intelligences that possessed more life than this _spartan_. His was an inexorable, ruthless and machine-like methodology, willing to go to any length to win. The human's force of will and sheer adaptability was terrifying to witness, shrugging off mortal wounds as if they were simply minor inconveniences, and accepting the arrival of new alien life with pragmatic stoicism.

Ju'das had not stopped worrying about what all of this would mean for the Covenant, a new contender for galactic domination? Or perhaps another client state that could be brought to bear with force of arms? Considering the present, he was not entirely confident in the latter, and legitimately concerned with the former.

Yet the human, this spartan, appeared to hold no counsel about this unexpected revelation, pursing his secretive objective with a dogged determination that was undeniably impressive.

A glint of metal flashed in the dark, strobing atmosphere of the corridor, and his muscles reflexively tightened. Ju'das nearly jumped backwards and drew his weapon, suspecting foul play from the abomination. But he suppressed the desire, crushing it to dust as he looked upon the human's extended hand. In his palm rested a short metal blade, the armored curl of his fingers cupping the length of serrated steel as he offered it forward, hilt first.

Ju'das looked up from the offered weapon, into the impassive, unwavering eye of the human warrior, and then, briefly, to the hilt of the energy sword magnetically attached to his hip. And, with a heavy sigh of defeat the zealot accepted the primitive human tool. Pride was only suited to those without shame. Even in his current condition, Ju'das held no illusion that the human could not overpower him, at least at such a close distance. And the idea of killing the human after he had stepped in to save his life seemed repugnant.

This fact reminded him of why they had initially formed this uneasy alliance. If he was to survive this he would need the help of the abomination, for the moment. Now that the path had been cleared, it would not be much longer before they arrived at their destination and he would at last be free of this indignity.

This consideration passed in the minute it took for the human to step away and gesture for him to lead the way.

With a sigh of stayed sufferance, he obeyed.

XX-XX-XX

The notification came, as they always tended to, at the most inopportune of moments. The soft tone of his communicator seemed more like a deafening cacophony in the once silent air of his quarters, four piercing notes that to his ears were near identical to what might occur if you scrapped a cheese grater across a bulkhead. An emphatic groan, the swelled frustration of a bitter hangover compounded on too little sleep, seeped from his lungs as he, with not inconsiderable effort, twisted his shoulders in such a way that spilled him onto his side.

He reached out sightlessly, eyes still clenched tight to ward off the throbbing lights flashing from the device sitting on the bolted table across his bed, and searched about in a semi-coherent fugue. His paw brushed across the tabletop, scattering empty pill bottles and knocking over a half finished pouch of water that spilled across the surface.

The vulpine's groan quickly devolved into a hiss of displeasure as the cool liquid splashed against his palm. Although, it was soon to shift into a sigh of relief as he felt his fingers brush against an open band of cool metal.

"Ugh…" He mumbled, smacking his lips and running his tongue across their dryness in disgust. With another groan, this one of effort, he forced himself into a seated posture, and winced as his worldly perception seemed to spin. "Mehg…" He spluttered as he blindly searched for the overturned water pouch. Upon its discovery, he grasped the malleable beverage container and tilted his head up, jaws splayed open to obtain the much desired hydration.

This time the coolness was welcomed, as was the alleviation of his parched throat. He gave the bag a squeeze; guzzling most of its contents in a way that would have been viewed impolite were he in the presence of anyone else but the silent solitude of his quarters. The very last dregs of water he swirled around his muzzle and gargled, before spitting back into the container.

Tossing it to a bin across the room, where it bounced on the rim before falling inside, he rummaged through the mess of empty pill bottles until he found one that rattled. Working quickly he emptied it into his palm and tossed them into his mouth and swallowed dry. The painkillers worked quickly, and within minutes it dialed his agonizing migraine into a minor ache.

Now that he was in some sort of reasonable shape, he focused on the matter at hand.

The vulpine turned his attention to his comms bracer, still beeping that horribly annoying racket, and grabbed it with his left paw, slipping it over the wrist of his right. And then at last, he peeled his eyes open. Peering through a blurred squint, he waited till the hazy and distorted shapes around him coalesced into the organized chaos that was his bedroom, its compact volume proliferated with the random odds and ends he had collected over the years.

Blinking hard in an effort to brush away the last of the cobwebs, he took a glance at his comms unit. With an irritable grumble, he slapped his palm down on the big red button that pulsed angrily at him. And as he his paw hit the haptic interface, the display darkened to a much less annoying intensity and the earsplitting shrill of the alarm shut off.

"Finally…" The vulpine grunted as he tinkered with the device secured to his arm. Working with deft ease born of frequent use, he flicked his fingers up as he modified the projector to enlarge the image into a more eye-friendly size. The holographic interface now inhabiting a moderate portion of the space above his arm, allowed him to read the alert with bold clarity in a professional blue backdrop familiar with all high band Federation communications. And what he saw was not a welcomed sight, though it was familiar.

_PRIORITY ONE MESSAGE_

_FEDERATION HIGH COMMAND_

_PLEASE INPUT SECURITY KEY AND DISENGAGE BIOMETRICS_

As he finished reading the last line a floating number pad popped up in front of him.

Scowling, he tapped in the twenty-six digit combination, raised the bracer up to his eye for a retinal scan, and placed his thumb on the small scanning card that popped out of his communicator, accomplishing all of this with a lingering grimace. He wasn't in the particular mood for government paranoia, even if it was well reasoned.

_IDENT ACCEPTED_

_FOX MCCLOUD 486-69-27_

_CMND/0-6_

_STARFOX MERCENARY COMPANY_

_DOWNLOAD DATA PACKET Y/N?_

The vulpine read the information as it slowly scrolled across the center of his vision, entering the Y key when prompted. The display changed immediately, the extensive security measures replaced by a wall of scrolling text and images from what appeared to be spy satellites and garrison drones. He recognized the planet in the background and the environment from the groundside pictures. What he did not recognize, was the content. He looked back to the documents for explanation, and as the information unraveled, his irritation was replaced with curiosity, followed shortly after by an unusual sense of uncertainty.

With a frown, he swiped down, shutting off the projector, leaving him in the dark of his bedroom where his mind began to wander. He dwelled for a while on the information he had been given, and the offered contract he invariably knew he would accept, not only because it meant more credits, but it was, as always, in the interest of protecting his home.

There really wasn't any room to decline. Their reputation was fostered on their reliability and efficiency at handling whatever fuckups command invariably made. And while it was not exactly his favorite type of contract, it helped that these usually guaranteed the longevity of the government that protected his interests, namely family and the ability to indulge in a little R&R.

Realizing that time was of the essence, and that he didn't have time to procrastinate as he might have liked, Fox, with not inconsiderable effort, tore himself from his bed and stumbled towards the bathroom, navigating the clutter of his sleep quarters as he stifled a prodigious yawn and with quick a flurry of keystrokes, sent a message across the team's emergency alert system.

Bumbling into the lavatory with the grace of a Fischinian ice beast, he quickly strung up his briefs and threw himself into the shower unit for a quick decon after last night's _festivities_. The scalding blast of hot water was just the remedy he needed to kickstart his numbed brain, and after a thorough scrub down and liberal use of the dryers he was damp, but satisfied.

Stepping out, and after a brief admiration of his physique, he gargled some mouthwash and attacked his puffed coat with a brush. Leaving the bathroom in the buff, he smoothed out his fur as he crossed the minefield of his bedroom and opened his closet, rustling out a clean uniform and a cap with the Starfox logo plastered across the front.

As he finished dressing, he glanced at the clock on his comms unit and nodded.

_Ten minutes, not bad_. The vulpine hummed as he fiddled with the unit, projecting a screen that reflected his appearance. Hitting it with his best roguish smile and a wink, he deemed himself socially acceptable and after straightening out his clothes he slipped out of his bedroom and into the hall. The corridor outside the captain's cabin was as immaculate as always, gleaming walls of untouched silver and a deck that was clean enough to eat off of. And after a bad bet with Falco, he could attest to that.

Huffing good-naturedly at the memory, and with a somewhat amiable scowl, he jogged down the empty hallway to the lift that'd take him to the lower decks.

He wasn't all that taken up by how isolated the captain's quarters were on the Great Fox, but he understood that it was for the sake of appearances. The captain of a ship could not be seen slumming with his subordinates, even if he did not care personally about propriety. Starfox has been and always would be an irregular outfit, more dysfunctional family than military unit. It was a system that worked, and he had no intention of upsetting the balance.

In the life, he flicked a thumb over the icon labeled OPS, and leaned against the side wall to wait out the trip. He used that time to think back on the mission packet he'd received, particularity, its peculiarity. His team had flown quite a few missions for Federation command and they'd all been more or less the same. Knock out this target, take out this group, run off these pirates, it'd been steady, but bland enough for him to consider tearing out his fur. But this time, something about this assignment was… different.

As he mused, the elevator icon stopped a few floors above operations. He glanced at the display and noticed that it had paused over the crew deck. Fox took that moment as the door opened, to ponder on the lottery of who his first face of the day would be. And as the lift doors parted, he felt a smirk curl his lips.

"Morning beakbutt."

"Fuck off, fuckhead."

Fox chuckled as Falco's bedraggled person trudged inside, looking considerably more worse for wear than himself. Blood shot eyes and an outfit that still faintly smelled of alcohol masked by an overbearing application of cologne. _At least he showered_. The vulpine mussed as the avian slumped against the opposite wall.

"So… shitty recon mission or shitty pirate sweep." The bird wondered, shuffling his arms across his chest as he peered angrily across the way.

"Neither, thankfully." He answered. "Something new today."

"Thank the gods." Falco muttered darkly, beak twitching with relief. "Been tired of this easy street shit. Ain't no way for a bird like me to be flying. So, what's the gig?" He asked as the lift stopped on OPS and the doors opened, unveiling yet another corridor, though this one had several offshoots and a large door at the far end.

"Not yet." Leaning off the wall and entering the corridor, he gestured for Falco to follow. "If I tell you now you'll just hear me spew the same shit during the brief. Let's save us both the trouble, yeah?"

While the bird's answer came in the form of a huff, he seemed to agree as he went silent as they crossed the hall and stopped briefly at the bulkhead sealing off the operations room. A quick swipe of his bracer across the scanner sent his access codes to the unit, and after verification, the bulkhead split along the center as the magnetic locks were disengaged. The edifice of steel pulled apart with a low churn of hidden motors, and they walked inside.

Fox went deeper into the ops center while Falco leisurely wandered straight to the beverage machine along the left wall, ready to help himself with an early injection of caffeine. The vulpine, awake enough for the moment, spent his time setting up for the briefing. Popping out the data chip in his comms unit, he plugged it into the massive center console dominating the heart of the room and let his eye wander as the machine downloaded the coded information that had been sent across the tight beam.

The operations room was large, but tight on corners. Space was at a premium on most vessels, especially warships. And while the Great Fox might have been designed to be a little more commodious than was standard, it was only partly an exception. Most available acreage in this particular compartment was occupied with various machines and devices that helped them plan their various tasks and assignments, whether it was gathering sensor and radar data, or processing communications between allied and hostile ships. Its shape was only slightly ovular, and with the varied backups and redundancies coded in the emergency systems, could be used as a secondary bridge should the main be damaged or destroyed. Unlike the area round it, its walls were double layered composite alloy and its only entrance was a bulkhead three feet thick, nigh impervious to breaching charges and even a direct blast from a shipborne energy lance.

He'd not yet been forced to test its limits, and he did his damned best to ensure he never had to. The Great Fox was not only a carrier, but probably one of the most powerful dreadnoughts in federation space, a project that had taken his father his entire life to create and finance. And Fox was still working to pay off the debt. This ship was not only his home, but his family's legacy. He only hoped that he could live up to the standard.

Fox stared at the loading bar floating above the conference console as he heard the bulkhead begin startup, paying it only half a mind as he dwelled on his memories, of the many times his team had been gathered inside this room planning for the odds no matter how bleak. They were good memories, most of them anyways.

He was taken away from his reflection by the sound of the doors cycling open, the deep thunk of machines reverberating through the deck. The vulpine cast his gaze towards the entrance to watch as the rest of his crew shuffled in.

"So anyways I told him he could either step off or suck on the egg he came out of."

As ever at the vanguard of any occasion, was Miyu, the verbose feline regaling her ubiquitous companion with another one of her stories. Fay, much to her credit, managed to appear interested in a story she'd no doubt already heard more than a dozen times since its occurrence.

"Yes, I do remember that." The canine assured her friend with an expression of mild tedium that spoke of a conversation that had started earlier and continued till present. "He became rather miffed."

"Yeah, until she popped him across the jaw." A voice muttered behind the pair.

"Hehe, yeah, I sure did." The lynx chuckled smugly.

"Knocking my drink all over my new jumpsuit." The voice finished much to Miyu's condemnation, and Fay's amusement.

"Yeah, she sure did."

"Look Slip," the feline began with a wry, semi-apologetic grin. "I said I was sorry, and I got you another one, didn't I…" She paused, a contemplative look crossing her muzzle. "I did right? I was rather drunk at that point."

"You did." The toad agreed as he stepped out from behind them and made an effort to circumnavigate around the cat and dog as he made his way to the ops console.

"But you knocked _that _onto him too, when that angry croc made a run at you… you know, after you put a fist across his jaw." Fay explained with a smile that had continued to grow wider.

"And they wonder why I do not dain to accompany them." Krystal spoke from the rear, the vixen following after the group at conscientious distance and at a reserved pace. Her voice, soft, and cultured, with a distinctly foreign accent that refused to dissipate, carried over the loud discussion.

"No small wonder, I say." Peppy agreed beside her, the weary hare having long foregone any attempt at joining certain members of the team on their extracurricular exploits.

The hardly masked, slightly malicious chuckle from Falco across the room carried even farther.

The tips of Miyu's tufted ears flushed red.

Fox, having long noticed the pattern, stepped in at that moment before the conversation could follow its usual path and devolve into a spirited, but amusing argument.

"Alright, put a hold on playtime children." The vulpine forestalled the storm with an upraised paw and a stern inflection. And like always, the gravity in his tone turned the rampant hovercar of conversation back into more reasonable territory. "It's mission time folks, and I'd like everyone to pay attention, cause this is going to be a little more complicated than what we've grown used to over the past few months."

"What, we're not flushing pirates out of the Meteo asteroid fields? Miyu inquired, eager to shift topic and somewhat surprised at the eagerness she heard in his voice. It's been quite a while since she last heard any sense of interest when he spoke about their missions.

Fox shook his head in the negative, and with a swipe of his paw he finished uploading the Federation data packet and sent it through the ops table's holo projector. The team remained quiet as the stream of information and recon photos filled the room.

"Not today, Miyu." The vulpine answered, an eager grin splitting across his maw as he gestured to the picture of Fortuna's surface, taken by a Federation navy drone, and the flurry of activity in the jungle of Animus, close to the planet's equator.

"Today, we're going hunting."

* * *

_AN:Alright boys and girls, next chapter is when shit really starts to hit the fan. I hope you're all excited, because it' gonna be a wild ride. I hope you lot enjoy this chapter, cause I stayed up **way** later then I should have to get it done. And I know work is totally gonna kill me tomorrow. But I did this for you guys... and me too I guess. I'm trying to crunch the time between updates, but my work schedule leaves much to be desired when it comes to availability. In any case, as always I look forward to reviews, comments, and suggestions. That shit really helps push me along, its kinda like a drug, like caffeine for my inspiration. Anyways, have fun and stay safe!_

_Till next time_

_Drake_


	6. Upon Wings of Silver

"_You are not kids anymore. You forfeit the privilege to be so erroneously labeled the moment you signed the waiver. Now you are not children, you are __**investments**__. As of this moment moving forward you are the property of the United Nations Space Command. And it is my sole purpose to turn you whimpering mass of sniveling puke stains into the greatest warriors' humanity has ever seen." _

"_You will not be spartans, you will be __**better."**_

_There was silence in the amphitheater as more than four hundred youthful eyes stared at the small person that shouted and proclaimed atop his pulpit with all the fire and faith of a man possessed. He spoke words they had not yet learned before the schools of their worlds had been reduced to glass. He shouted in a raised voice they'd only heard used by mad parents before they had been shot and cut down by ravening aliens. _

_Lining the edges of the auditorium, men and women in dark uniforms bearing intimidating rifles supervised the assembled crowd with grim expressions. Up high banners waived, the fluttering shape of a winged bird, talons clutched around a dimpled sphere, loomed above them, none yet old enough to understand what the man, soldiers, or flags meant. All they knew was that after their worlds had been glassed and their parents had been killed by scary monsters, some people had asked if they wanted to do something about it. And now, a few months later, here they were, dropped off in small clusters in front of a towering edifice of metal; the gates to a place the small man had called Camp Currahee._

_Now they were being yelled at by an angry man, huddled into a room that was too cold, and anyone that tried to wander off was roughly tossed back by the scary men in black. Fear and unease hung low in the air as they tried to understand what the small, angry man was trying to tell them, hoping maybe to learn why they had been brought here and how this was going to help them get revenge for their families. _

_Deep in the ranks, several rows down and fifteen kids left from the wall, a young boy, hardly old enough to be able to comprehend small division, picked aimlessly at a loose thread on his shirt. While he played with the strand, he studied the small logo on his chest, noticing that it was just like the one flapping up above. He didn't pay attention to the words of the small man. If he couldn't understand what the small man was saying, well then it just seemed like a big waste of time didn't it? At least he thought so. His older brother would have been able to tell him the meaning behind the small man's, big words. _

_The boy frowned, and a quiet sniffle was lost in the noise of the small man's speech. He looked up all the same, but no one had heard him. Just like school he was ignored by everybody else, only this time there was no older brother or younger sister to wipe away his tears. Rubbing a knuckle across the wetness under his eye, the young boy tried to bury the sad thoughts. His mom and dad wouldn't want him to be sad. He remembered what they had told him before he was taken away to the giant metal ships. Well… he remembered most of it anyway, something about not giving up, and to be brave. But it was hard to be brave, and he didn't think he could do it. But he wouldn't give up. He would __**never**__ give up. _

_He missed home, he missed his family, he missed the stray dog that would always come around their apartment unit to eat the table scraps he saved for it, even though he was pretty sure his dad knew about it. He missed the sunrise over the trees outside their town, he missed the warm summer air and the sound of birds._

_Here it was cold and it was always raining and there were no song birds or funny dogs. There was only angry soldiers and the small man, who seemed to always be yelling and shouting. _

_And the young boy could only blame the monsters. It was the monsters that had burned the trees and made the air hot and dry. It was the monsters that had killed the funny dogs and scared away the song birds. It was the monsters that had… that had… killed… his family, that forced him to run away from his home and leave it to die._

_He __**hated **__the monsters. He wanted them to __**suffer, **__to be sad like he was. The small man said that he would have a chance to punish the monsters, to make them feel like he felt right now. The small man promised him the opportunity to get even. His mom always told him that it was wrong to think that way, that two wrongs didn't make a right, but maybe… if he divided the wrongs, it might be okay then. _

_Wiping away the last of his tears, the young boy remembered something his father had taught him, something important. Something to help him when he felt sad or mad._

_Inhale…_

_Count to four._

_Exhale…_

_XX-XX-XX_

Noble Six released the breath he was holding so fiercely, listened to the rush of air that whistled from the shattered gape in his visor, and focused a baleful glare on the back of his sangheili navigator. He counted, slowly, methodically, and then filled his lungs with the second. He buried his desire deep, suppressed his _need_, to kill the monster in front of him_._ The craving was powerful, and he could imagine easily, the many poignant ways he could go about it. But no amount of want would be instigation enough to jeopardize his objective. His duty surpassed his claim of petty desire. It was utterly imperative that he return to allied territory. The UNSC needed to be informed of this development. The ramifications to the war at large could be unprecedented.

These aliens were hostile to the Covenant, and very likely, would carry that animosity onto humanity as well. Command had to be informed, if they did not already know. Six was unsure how much time had passed, or how far or close he had come to humanity's territories. If he was still correct in believing that his slipspace bomb had triggered, then there was no way to find an answer to that unless he could obtain a recent star chart. That was a goal far removed from present concerns however. First he would have to get off this ship alive before he could juggle hypotheticals.

To that end, the elite could not yet be killed. Perhaps, after transportation was secured and their agreement expired, he could see about correcting that crime against nature. Noble Six inhaled deeply, counted slow the exercise he had been taught, and suppressed the pervasive beast of murderous intent that prowled dormant within.

"_How much farther?" _He demanded in a low growl frayed with impatience, his blood still running hot after their most recent skirmish. Another ten aliens of unknown origin had been tacked on as an addendum to his mounting body count, and he was no closer to finding answers to his innumerable questions.

"We approach our destination at swift pace." The sangheili warrior snapped feistily, arm clasped tight against his injured side. "Barring another interruption from these filthy brigands, we are perhaps a few minutes distant at most."

The spartan snarled, flicking the fire selector of his battered assault rifle, his subconscious mind unable to discern what degree of lethality was called for. Yet this was simply the symptom of an increasingly complex irritant. As such, it was nonetheless a potent source of annoyance that could not be properly estimated in words. To show such noticeable emotion was unbecoming of his character, character he had taken great pains to construct from the torn and discarded remnants of his childhood personality. The lengths he had undergone to suppress any form of frivolous thought and personal belief was immense. He had, through great effort and personal detriment, centered himself around a core of meticulously constructed impartiality. And nothing, in all the years of his service to ONI, had been able to wholly shake his resolve.

The events of the last few hours, however, seemed to have become a prominent exception to this rule.

He reasoned, with some difficulty, that this predicament was compelling enough to be classified as extenuating circumstance. The spartan liked to believe that he could be forgiven for such a minute lapse in professionalism given the nature of the disruption. For there was much to think about, and thus far none of his thoughts were optimistic. These new aliens plagued his thoughts incessantly, inserting themselves pointedly into the tiniest cracks in his impassive demeanor, wedging the fractures wide as the canyons of Demeter.

They were so familiar as to be unfamiliar. Nevertheless despite this truth they were, in a way, even more alien than the most obtuse creatures of the Covenant. These… _things_ were molded of conspicuous form, sharing the inimitable morphology of man and that of native fauna of mankind's terrestrial cradle.

The acquainted likeness to human biology, the similarity to earth's many creatures, this could not possibly be coincidence, could it? The Covenant races shared a similarity to mankind only in their bipedal nature; otherwise they came as varied as the stars. But these creatures, these… animals... Their very biology was near reflection of humanity, same organs, same shape, same number, same size, same position. The first creature he had inspected, seemed almost as if someone had skinned a dog and shaped its hide around the body of a man.

Six found the likeness… unsettling.

His only comfort lay in analysis that in this likeness they shared humanity's weaknesses. He did not need put any more or less effort to destroy them. Their bones could be broken, their flesh torn, their armor sundered. They could be surprised, they could be deceived, and they could be killed. These were his only consolations to diminish the austerity of his task. Yet such easements were little more than hollow assurances that did nothing to obscure the truth. These new aliens were not the depth of his problem, as unalike to the Covenant's unassailability; they could be bested with a modicum of effort. The true danger lay in the understanding that he would need to contend with them and the Covenant, perhaps not as allies, but equal partners opposed to his success.

But, as with every great weight there was something to balance the scales. With new aliens came new technology, with new technology came new weapons, with new weapons… well Noble Six could at least take some pleasure in stoking his passing interest in the military sciences. And the blatant observation that they shared his negative opinion of the Covenant at large was more than a passing note. This was valuable information that ONI would undoubtedly very much like to possess. Words like alliance, and treaty, were surely premature and speculative at best prospects, but at this late stage in the war against the Covenant, as humanity's capacity to wage it and the number of inhabited worlds slipped from their bloodied grasp, he figured there at least existed the possibility of certain concessions. His personal opinion on this matter, as always, remained irrelevant. He decided well enough that he would let HIGHCOM sort this mess out.

All he need do was find a way to return alive.

Jogging alongside the zealot down another seemingly endless corridor, the spartan tapped an armored knuckle against the barrel of the alien rifle slung over his shoulderplate. He listened to the hollow peel of metal and gave thought to the most recently included implement to his diverse arsenal. While the arms of this new faction did not share the power and mysticism of Covenant munitions, he found their similarity to human manufacture to be an equalizing element. He appreciated the rugged, no-nonsense functionality of their appearance. This weapon in particular he had lifted off a somewhat apish creature with a set of chevrons that he assumed donated a form of leadership position. It was different from the others, its shape denoting perhaps some marksmanship application, and was what initially attracted his attention.

The spartan had performed a quick check, noting the positions of the fire selector, safety, magazine catch, and he assumed what was an underbarrel launcher. Given the battered MA37 and its limited ammunition, he was close to benching the firearm in favor of his enemy's. After all, its ammunition would be plentiful and he had severe doubts that they would arm themselves with weapons they were unable to turn upon each other. Such was the nature of sapient life.

This musing allowed him to come to a decision as the elite stepped into a corridor that opened into a massive antechamber with a set of equally immense doors. He swapped his human made rifle for the new alien contraption, attaching his rifle to the mag strip on his back and slinging the strap of the alien weapon till the barrel faced forward. Taking a moment to judge its heft and balance he approached the elite who seemed occupied with the small holographic interface beside the door.

Under the assumption that the sangheili was attempting to input the code to unlock hangar access, Six eased himself against a nearby wall and pressed his body as close to the curved architecture as was possible. He suspected an ambush. It is what he would have done if their situation had been reversed. Not that he would stoop so low as to consort with an alien had this been a human vessel filled with human crew. If his suspicions proved correct he'd need as narrow a profile as possible to minimize incoming fire.

The elite, to his credit, paid no attention to the massive human supersoldier behind him as he entered in the final set of glyphs.

And as the small symbol on the door control lock flashed from red to white, the spartan readied himself to face what might lie ahead.

XX-XX-XX

"Right this way, come come!"

Lumi _allowed_ herself to be ushered and herded by the eccentric little unggoy that _apparently _was a minder tasked by Ju'das Rasumai himself. She _could_ have asserted her position and authority as a sangheili; she _could _have ordered around the small and effusive creature like a servant.

But…

"Come mistress, no need to worry. Nipnup have the makings of _great __**biggest**_ plan. Perhaps even _bestest _plan in history of unggoy, if not to be sounding arrow-gaunt."

She sighed.

This was not how she pictured her death.

Standing like a giant amidst the clustered gaggle of dwarfish creatures as they herded her to the nearby gravity lift, Lumi spared a brief moment to contemplate the various life choices that had led her to this moment of indignity, this slow descent into madness. Here she was, stranded on some gods forsaken planet filled with hostile aliens. And her best chance at survival was to listen to an unggoy… an_ unggoy!_

She was just glad there was no one important to see her in such an unseemly state of affairs. Hopefully they could take the Type-44 and return to the fleet in due time, she'd much prefer to let the warriors handle this new aggressive species.

The sound of doors shifting took her away from thoughts of mortification. And then, very suddenly, she had much more to worry about.

XX-XX-XX

Noble Six was… nonplussed, once the double doors to the hanger peeled open and did not disgorge a veritable tide of angry aliens hounding for his blood. It was not often when his battlefield predications failed to bear fruit. Though, if there was ever to be a time, in this instance he could not find reason to complain.

Moving away from the wall and stepping forward, the spartan placed a palm against the zealot marshal's shoulder and pushed him forward, but not too far ahead. If there was an ambush lying in wait deeper within, he'd want the alien close to put in front of the brunt of enemy ammunition.

He watched as the marshal entered first without complaint, and after a moment, he followed. Looking over the elite's shoulder he was given an extensive assessment of the devastation. In his idle observation of the tapestry of scattered wreckage, he examined the chaotic scramble of displaced aircraft, most crushed or shattered by some extreme force that ripped them from their moors. Six noted curiously the pattern of dislocation, was not unlike the overturned contents of a cabinet after a quake.

He dwelled on this, compiling it with the other fact he had been accumulating since his awakening, on the very precipice of what he felt was a dawning realization, and grunted in suitable surprised when a piercing shriek broke through his musing. He didn't issue such a rough proclamation at the sound of course; he'd heard worse in the heated pitch of war. Rather, his breathy rasp was a response elicited by the burning globule of plasma that slammed into the center of his shield-less breastplate.

The spartan-III staggered slightly, unconsciously following the roll and ebb of the kinetic force inferred by the sudden impact. Instinct drove his movements, honed by endless hours on the most dangerous battlefields known to human kind.

After all, this was more the par for what he expected.

Noble Six lunged an arm out, grasping the startled sangheili by the shoulder and dragging it close to his chest, the other arm snapped toward the direction of the shot, alien rifle raised, and trigger already squeezed.

A burst of four energy bolts erupted from the barrel of the weapon before he even had visual acuity of the offending target. This sequence of events occurred in the time it took for the elite to recoil in shock.

He heard the yelp of surprise, and honed in on the squealing chatter of a grunt, helmet half twisted and an unseen sneer darkening his expression. The creature was alive, though by no merit of its own intelligence. Rather the alien dangled rather comically off the open ramp of a phantom troop transport, its stubby claws clutched tight around the saving grace that prevented it from plummeting to the ground a full twenty-five feet below.

The spartan could only assume the dwarfish animal had tripped over its clumsy appendages, incidentally avoiding the cadre of piercing shards of energy that burned through the air it had been occupying not seconds previous.

Time, traveling at three tenths of its normal speed, rushed back to present, his mind mechanically recognizing that there was no more genuine threat to his wellbeing. Instead, his brain devoted a significant portion of its resources into understanding the presence of this unggoy's savior.

Such a weighty distribution of resources was understandable, given that the creature that had spared the unggoy its deserved fate was an inexplicably familiar character. The spartan-III stared blankly at the female sangheili clutching onto the swinging grunt, matching the wide-eyed stare of the lumbering alien as his knee buckled.

With his sense of time reverted to normal there was nothing distracting him now from the burning pain in his chest, the fiery agony so potent that it was hard even for him to think. And that was… peculiar.

Spartan's were naturally accustomed to pain, able to ignore injuries that would kill most soldiers through shock alone. Noble Six considered his pain tolerance threshold to be above even that of the standard spartan super soldier, it was a point of personal pride for him. In his career he had endured horrible, grievous wounds, time and time again without complaint.

But something this time around was different. Perhaps it was the compounded nature of his current injuries, heightened now by this newest grievance upon his body. Maybe it was a matter of running for days on a handful of hastily scarfed down scraps of rations and the occasional sip of water. Maybe it was the bizarre and abject sight of a female sangheili clutching onto an unggoy that swayed side to side like some form of grotesque pendulum. Whatever it was, his body finally seemed ready to call it quits.

Noble Six fell hard, crashing to his knees with the thunderous clatter of an overturned scorpion main battle tank. His arm, still clutched tight around the sangheili field marshal, brought the alien down with him.

He glanced down to his breastplate, his offhand securing the barrel of his rifle against the back of the elite's neck, and released a gasping exhalation. He had expected bad, what he saw was worse.

Molten rivulets of titanium trickled down the glowing gape in the center of his torso plate, the heated edges of the crater cooling to a dull orange. He could _feel_ the heat on his chest but he could still breathe without restriction, not counting of course the cracked ribs, those had been present earlier. This meant that the shot had gone through, but not far enough to boil his lungs. Most likely dermal damage, whatever of the irradiated heat of the plasma that could not be entirely mitigated by his body suit.

Either way it burned like the forges of hell.

Despite the pain and the numerous injuries, the spartan still refused to submit.

It took considerable effort, and a noticeable amount of time, before he could gather the resolve to stand on his feet. In that time, his sangheili captive remained silent and cooperative, and the female of its species had finally been able to pull the grunt from its perilous position. Both were dead silent, staring disbelievingly at the creature that had just taken a charged plasma shot to the chest and clawed back to its feet.

In turn the spartan eyed the aliens up in their phantom, studying the hovering vessel and its anti-infantry armaments that could be swiveled to face him at any moment. With reluctance, he turned his gaze away, eyes slightly widened as he scanned the overturned debris strewn about the covenant hanger.

"Demon…?" The sangheili field marshal uttered questioningly, its inflection lighter with the barrel of a weapon pressed against its neck. Its concern was reasonable, no action had taken place in several minutes, and he was very much at the mercy of his captor.

Six did not feel the need to offer any form of answer, his attention focused more acutely on the teardrop shape of the object that was to be his ticket out of this madness. The seraph seemed remarkably intact, at least from this distance. Given the general scene of mayhem it was likely his best chance and so he withheld what would have been his usual reservations. If it was still flight capable it'd be his best chance at surviving whatever insanity was lying in wait outside this ship.

And while he very much would have liked to gouge the unggoy's eyes out of its sockets with his fingers, he was not in a position to fulfill his desires. Right now, he'd settle for the simple matter of survival. Vengeance, while placatory, would not see him returned to the UNSC. As it was, the foolish creature had jeopardized not only his chance at escape, but his already undesirable alliance with the elite. Weakness invited opportunity, and at the moment he was not exactly at the epitome of his ability.

He could not afford to be stopped now.

The spartan leaned low, the shattered faceplate of his helmet resting alongside the sangheili's head.

"_Will you… honor our arrangement?" _The question, though difficult to articulate given the damage to his lungs and the wear of his numerous outstanding wounds, was short, concise, and its tone brooked no middle ground. At the first sign of hesitancy he'd blow the elite's spine out of its throat.

The alien, with not a second of indecision, nodded his assent. "My word is my bond, human. If you release me, we shall separate on neutral term."

There was silence after the alien spoke, as the spartan deliberated on the worth of the creature's word. He reflected on the course of past actions, and even though his instinct screamed and raved to the contrary, he let his most hated enemy slip through his fingers.

He'd made far more difficult sacrifices in his career, or so he reasoned with himself.

The zealot fell forward at the sudden unreleased tension around his shoulder, breathing a nearly inaudible sigh of relief at the disappearance of the weighted barrel at the back of his neck. Yet even with this new freedom he did not move. The balance in place was fragile, liable to devolve into violence at the slightest hint of provocation. And while any other sangheili would have gladly given their life simply to ensure the death of a demon, Ju'das did not feel as he once did.

Instead he looked to the phantom and its small crew of bumbling unggoy, or more so one particular amongst them. His gaze found Nipnup and the elite curled his mandibles into a thin smile.

The devote creature seemed confused, but his trust in Ju'das kept him from doing anything rash. And while they very well possibly could have turned the phantom's guns on the retreating figure of the human demon. Ju'das was no liar and certainly no oath breaker. He knew that if the hierarchs were ever to discover what transpired, that he would be branded a heretic, his name to be spoken in hateful whispers and defamed throughout recorded history.

Even so, he could do no less.

His word was all that he had left to believe in.

XX-XX-XX

To Noble Six, the seraph was a sign of divine providence, or at least in so far as he cared to measure the duplicity of the divine. In his examination of the craft he concluded it to be capable of prolonged flight and given the meteoric descent of his current extent of luck, that in itself was as much a sign of providence as if the God Himself had come down from the heavens.

Other than a few dents and scratches on the exterior hull and some misplaced items scattered about the interior, there was no sign of noteworthy damage, certainly nothing that would prevent it from taking him from A to B. Which, considering that to be the objective, he considered himself unusually fortunate. He felt doubly so, since the ship was still vacuum rated. His armor had ceased to fit that description quite some time ago.

The spartan placed a hand against the hull and leaned heavily into it, the other tenderly examining the deep cavity in his breastplate. Without his HUD at full functionality there was no real way to know the extent of his injuries without removing his Mjolnir. Bearing in mind that such an endeavor was a lengthy and time-consuming process that left him markedly vulnerable, it was unlikely that he would have a chance at that any time soon.

Instead, he sealed the breach with his last can of biofoam and elected to ignore it as he did with all his grievous injuries. Either there would come a time to tend his wounds, or there would not. As far as bottom lines went, it was a fairly simple one to follow.

Tossing the spent can of medical reagent outside the seraph to bounce down to the hanger deck, he turned at the ghostly whine of nearby engines, the artificial wind whistling through his broken faceplate. Noble Six watched the sloped profile of the phantom as it turned toward the yawning chasm that the Covenant seemed to designate as their hanger doors. He followed the ships departure with his eyes, not believing till the very last moment it disappeared outside, that their alliance would actually come to fruition.

So, he was surprised, not pleasantly, more so bemused.

The zealot field marshal had stood by his word, an unexpected outcome, and slightly underwhelming. He had expected different, perhaps even wanted to be wrong, despite the fact that would have meant his death. Now proven otherwise, the spartan found the elite's unpredictably rational behavior to be… disconcerting.

Noble Six allowed only a few moments to process his conflicted thoughts before turning his focus on to preparing the seraph for launch. In his career he'd flown a mixed variety of human and Covenant aircraft, though this was the first instance where he had the chance to fly a seraph that was not in a simulated environment.

Fortunately, the interior did not look all that different from the uncertain speculation of UNSC scientists. It was somewhat spacious, more so than what they had predicted, with enough room to walk about the cabin with roughly thirty feet of open compartment in any given direction. Unlike the banshee model, the pilot did not lie upon a surface, but instead sat in a command console not entirely unlike the captain's seat on a larger vessel.

The arrangement took adaptation, some minutes spent familiarizing partway familiar controls as he tried to keep the last few liters of blood in his body from seeping out of the multitudinous lacerations in his flesh and out the gaping rents in his armor. In a rare turn of good luck, the control scheme was at the least understandable between his personal experience with Covenant machinery and what training he had received in boot and took only him those few minutes of study before he was able to deduce the process necessary to activate power and switch on the engines.

The low, melodic hum of the Covenant impulse drive was not quite like the fierce roar of human turbines, but as long as it airworthy he wouldn't bother to protest. Instead the spartan's gaze was focused on the wafer-thin, crystalline screen in front of his chair, roughly encompassing the entire front facing wall of the compartment. Similar in form to how most of their technology operated, the screen depicted the outside of the ship in real-time, as opposed to the titanium infused windows and canopies of human construction.

He could see the broken and mangled detritus cast about the hanger, and the cavernous bay doors looming just beyond, the warm glow of sunlight beckoning him with a way out of this maddened hellscape he had drudged through since he had awakened all the hours before.

The revelation the rays of sunlight provided was an unexpected one, but in the grand scheme of the peculiarity he had been experiencing thus far, he found the prospect of the battlecruiser crashing on the surface of a world to be something easily believed, and gave credence to his most promising theory.

Giving a gentle push to the controls, the spartan coaxed the Covenant starfighter out of the hanger and into the light. The vehicle offered no protest, and seemed to be in decent condition notwithstanding the disservice it had endured after having been bounced about the inside of the battlecruiser's gut. His next step was to bring its full sensor suite online, a secondary display snapping into existence beside the first, a smaller more rectangular screen that split into five sectioned partitions, giving him nearly omnidirectional vision around the perimeter of the vehicle.

Seeing all of this first hand, Six was able to get a feeling for how Covenant pilots had been able to so easily outmaneuver them. The thought was merely reactionary however, as the spartan was already sending out passive scans and memorizing the various and frankly bizarrely designed layout of the seraph's controls.

In his work, he diverted a considerable portion of his thought process to the lower left viewing slot that offered him a bird's eye view of the battlecruiser's crash site. The effort was not insubstantial.

Noble Six, despite his remarkable ability to absorb and disseminate information, conceded that the sudden intake was very nearly overloading his senses. Given that he was piloting the seraph, studying its controls, watching all seven displays, and attempting to gather information about the planet, while continuously applying all of his expansive medical knowledge on keeping his body from going into hypovolemic shock, he could hardly be blamed for only now noticing the fierce combat being waged around the broken skeleton of the Covenant warship.

This planet, or so at least this continent, was lush with vegetation, a sprawling rainforest that stretched out in the distance far beyond what his eyes or the seraph's sensors could detect. The terrain, was also unlike anything he had seen on Reach, which was only the second disqualifying factor, as humanity's last bastion had not been proliferate with a race of anthropomorphic animals

Those very same animals were doing an excellent job of using the forest to their advantage, and appeared to be making significant headway in a relentless push to the Covenant's desperate front line. The sight of the arrogant alien empire on such a frantic back leg was a view that offered the spartan not inconsiderable satisfaction

The flurry of energy weapons that fired at his craft from behind the line of aggressing aliens was not as much. Now the spartan was forced to master the seraph's controls in a very short span of time. Taking the teardrop craft into a whirling descent, the alien drive core howled as it cut through the air like a blade, hurtling towards the ground with incredible velocity. Moments before the seraph impacted the ground in a massive explosion of scrap and slag, he pulled hard on the yoke.

The entire vehicle shuddered and creaked as it ripped itself skyward, skirting across the battlefield on a knife's edge. Pulling left on the flight stick, Six persuaded the seraph into a whirling spin that was cushioned by the fighter's inertial dampeners. Hopefully the maneuver would throw any form of guidance technology the aliens might have been using, because he wasn't sure he could keep his blood where it was supposed to be if he had to pull another move like that. The maneuver was simple enough, and smoother than what would have been possible with even a saber, but the Gs still hit hard, and he was sure it played hell with his internal injuries.

But it was just something he had to deal with, because he was far too close to actually surviving this, much to his continued bafflement. The inertia of his trajectory sent him rocketing towards the atmosphere and away from the battle. Hurtling towards orbit, he allowed himself the barest leeway to relax, sinking into an unexpectedly comfortable seat, the cushioning improbably supportive of his armored bulk. Overall the spartan was feeling rather content. His plan had worked and he acquired a slispace capable ship. And what's more he had, unexpectedly, not died.

The spartan ruminated in silence, processing recent events and appreciating the momentary respite that was often so fleeting. He also planned for his return. After a few random slispace jumps, and a thorough examination of the seraph for any form of tracking technology, he'd examine the star chart and plot a course to the nearest UNSC held system or so at least one adjacent. From there he could contact ONI and arrange for retrieval. From there all he need do was take the information he had acquired to his superiors, make his report, and prepare for the next fight. The war was far from over, and perhaps just maybe the information he had fallen upon would be the push needed to tip the scales, finally turn this war into one they could actually win. In truth he was feeling rather optimistic.

And that is, of course, when the sensors pinged. A low hiss of air seeped from his mouth in half formed mimicry of a sigh as he glanced at the notification and what little remained of his blood chilled.

The Covenant glyph utilized to signal human technology rested in the center of his gaze and the spartan felt sense of irritation vanish along with the lethargy brought upon by heavy blood loss. Sitting up swiftly, he placed a palm on the small sensor display and opened the window to take up the full breadth of the secondary screen. He stared at the enlarged icon, and noted its position… down on the surface… with the Covenant and the other alien race.

The spartan obviously considered ignoring the notification. Given the already sheer impossibility of his escape there was no clear reason to throw his chances in jeopardy. Yet, as his mind brushed upon his comprehension course in Covenant military communications, he recalled that specific glyph being used to denote active human IFF markers. And that was enough to get him to doubletake.

There was somebody down there.

He didn't know how or why they were there, but he considered it worth the risk to find out. It had the potential to be valuable intelligence, something else to add to the considerable cache he'd already attained, and that was the only excuse he needed to viably consider the hypothetical rescue operation.

Noble Six had been unable to save the lives of his team on Reach, and he had failed to prevent its fall to the Covenant, but perhaps with this he could make an effort to balance the slate.

The spartan, tenderly feeling the warped material of his bodysuit through the breach in his breastplate, pulled on the seraph's flight stick and turned the Covenant fighter's nose rearwards toward the planet below, the curling tines of its twin tails brushing against the atmosphere as it careened to the surface.

Somehow, he had a feeling this would backfire tremendously.

And of course, that's when the surface of the planet exploded.

XX-XX-XX

With a flare of viridian light, the Great Fox jumped in to the Fortuna sector, the massive dreadnought trailing wisps of glittering energy that sputtered in the wake of its reentry into real space. The planet giving this sector of space its name was far distant, little more than a colorful blip on the unending horizon. Such distance was a precautionary measure, giving the crew of the vessel ample enough time to scan for possible threats.

The Remnant was mostly inactive in this area of space, but the Starfox mercenary company was not known for their lackluster performance, quite the opposite in fact.

Inside the ship, on the bridge, was the captain, as to be expected of a vulpine of his position, though the way he lounged in his chair could be taken as unprofessional, and that was alright. The Starfox mercenary company was an informal institution, and adhering to the rigor of military conduct was another thing they certainly were not known for.

"NO HOSTILE FORCES DETECTED."

"Thanks ROB." The captain, one Fox McCloud, looked to his mechanical adjutant with a grin that had gotten him into trouble in many places throughout the Federation.

"You know, you don't have to thank the robot." Falco groused irritably from his seat at the weapons console, the avian looking decidedly unhappy as he loomed over a warm squeeze pack of dehydrated, and tastelessly rehydrated coffee.

"CORRECT." The machine buzzed unhelpfully.

"What a killjoy," Fox muttered lazily as he scratched his chin and looked to his faithful helm officer, who smiled as the vulpine gestured towards the simulated window of space. In all reality the bridge of the ship was protected by several belts of armor and a secondary shield matrix. The protruding bow was more a design choice, and nowhere near the actual bridge of the ship. He didn't try to think about it much, made the whole thing less exciting. "Alright Pep, take us in."

The hare, old but gold, complied with his order with faithful diligence Fox wished other members of his team would display.

He cut Falco a dirty look.

And the avian raised a particular insulting digit in return.

In the distance, the planet on question began to grow, from miniscule pinprick of color to multi-hued marble. In that time Fox mused. The rest of the team was down by the hanger deck, waiting to launch at the first sign of trouble. While tactically sound, it also happened to leave him lacking in meaningful conversation. Pepe was great, a solid bastion of reliability, but not much of a talker, and when he did, he droned on about things that Fox frankly struggled to hold interest in.

And Falco, well.

He glanced passingly at the bird, who was sucking his lukewarm coffee through a bendy straw with murderous intent.

The guy was anything but a conversationalist.

It just looked like he would have to have outsource. At this time the marble had developed into a blue and green beachball and Fox fiddled with the small rectangular keypad recessed into the left armrest of his chair, dialing up the conference code of the garrison commander that had been forwarded to him by General Pepper. His paw hovered over the enter key, but did not hit the final stroke.

He caught it in the corner of his eye, little more than a pinprick of light, a brief flash on the planet's surface. And within a second his head snapped towards the screen. He was not the only one to react

Peppy gasped quietly and Falco leaned forward in his seat with a loud swear.

"ROB." He muttered apprehensively.

The automaton droned loudly and its visor flashed in chaotic rhythm.

"WARNING! MULTIPLE HIGH YIELD DETONATIONS DETECTED!"

"RAISING SHIELDS!"

Fox lurched up in his seat and smashed his finger against the enter key. He turned to Falco, his voice controlled but unable to fully mask his concern, which was quite self-evident. His mind raced, already forming his next command in moments. There was no time to speculate. "Tell the team to launch, screening pattern."

The bird did not argue, and was already speaking into his communicator by the time Fox looked to Peppy.

"Pep take us in closer, two-thirds speed, and warm up the guns."

"Aye, already on it." The rabbit replied dutifully, his face drawn tight into a frown as he worked over the controls.

Fox nodded sternly, all business now, and listened to the bridge's loudspeaker as it chimed. It rang twice, before cutting harshly to static.

"HIGH LEVELS OF ELECTROMAGNETIC INTERFERENCE DETECTED."

ROB interjected unhelpfully.

Fox cursed, swiveling his chair to face the machine as the screen behind him was populated with several arwings flying in a holding pattern outside the ship. The silver ships weaved together gracefully, their blue wingtips leaving cerulean trails as they glided in formation. The pilots were no doubt communicating among themselves in their separate line, formulating their own speculations and conclusions.

For a moment, Fox wished he could trade places.

"ROB, were those explosions artificial" The vulpine hesitated, his voice dropping in volume as he brushed a paw through his dampening mane.

"Were they _nuclear_?"

"NEGATIVE. SENSOR READINGS OF THE EXPLOSIONS WERE CONSISTENT WITH HIGH YIELD CHARGES MODIFIED BY UNSTABLE G-DIFFUSION DRIVES. RECORDS INDICATE THIS IS A WELL-KNOWN TACTIC OF REMNANT TERROR CELLS. CAUTION, HIGH DENSITY OF ELECTRON DISCHARGE WILL RENDER LONG RANGE COMMUNICATION IMPOSSIBLE."

Fox sighed in relief. The news, while undeniably horrible, could have been much worse. And at the moment there were few things to be grateful of, and he was willing to take whatever he could get.

"Guess that means we're on our own." Falco snorted.

"Again."

While Fox agreed with Falco's sentiment, rare as it did happen, that was not really his concern at the moment. "Were the detonations near population centers?" His question was hedged carefully, and he dreaded the answer forthcoming.

"NEGATIVE."

ROB replied, to his great relief once more.

"THE BLAST WAS SEVERAL HUNDRED KILOMETERS FROM THE NEAREST POPULATION CENTER. RISK TO CIVILIAN LIFE..."

The machine hummed as it computed, coming to an answer with a chirp of, "NEGLIGIBLE."

While satisfied that whatever might have happened had not resulted in the deaths of untold numbers of innocent civilians, Fox was still left with many questions unanswered. And with communication to the planet's surface blocked by what was in all probability, a committed use of electromagnetism, it was an answer he would have to find personally.

Fox hopped to his feet, his boots landing hard and loud upon the silvery surface of the bridge's deck. He turned to Falco, the avian looking to him expectantly. "Come on," he flicked his muzzle toward the door.

There was only one thing left to do really.

"Let's fly."

The bird grinned.

* * *

_Yep still alive boys and girls. The story marches on, dragging though the mud and muck of writer's block and __procrastination. Hope the new chapter was a good one, and I look forward to your collective input. Anyways, like always, it is way passed my bedtime._

_Drake out._


	7. And the Good News?

He was falling.

Concerning, but not yet world ending. Noble Six could question the why and waste time, or he could stop himself from becoming an ugly smear across the planet's surface. Weighing his options, the answer was readily apparent. The weightlessness of freefall had ripped him from the console, but his firm grip on the seat barely kept him from spinning and bouncing around in the compartment.

He really should have tried harder to find the Covenant's analog of a flight harness.

Noble Six released a shallow grunt as the ship flipped around him and his head smashed against the display, the impact forming a minute crack down the crystalline screen. The violence of the impact scrabbling his already disjointed thoughts, he tried to claw the last few minutes into some semblance of recognizable memory. Inversely, with his face pressed against the screen he was able to get a clear view of the planet's surface as the powerless seraph hurtled down at escape velocity, which should have been the reverse. If his death, after all these years, was a result of his sudden bleeding heart, shame would not be sufficient a word to describe his opinion on the subject. As he was adamantly averse to dying in such an obdurate way, he'd probably need to get a hold on the seraph, find a means to slow its rapid descent.

If he were to hit the planet at current speed…

Well whatever's left of his armor wouldn't be worth the slag it was made of. He'd suffer a rather sudden and violent demise of twisted shrapnel and charred bone. And Six had come too far to meet an end so ignoble.

Grabbing the headrest of the command seat, he griped hard and pulled, forcing himself down towards the console. The spartan anchored himself, forming a trough with his gauntlet and plunging it deep into the metal next to the display. The seraph lurched, the starship's outline caught in a violent updrift that forced it into a spin, and Six grunted as his shoulder wrenched with a wet _pop_. But his grasp held true and he was able to force himself downward, clenching his thighs around the chair to keep him from flying about the cabin.

Noble Six grunted in frustration as his eyes strained to make sense of the rolling panorama of images whirling around him.

This was why fighter cockpits should be relegated to the single seat structure. Say what you will about Covenant design aesthetic, it left much to be desired.

His orientation secured for the moment, he used his free hand to work on the console, dredging up his limited understanding of Covenant flight technology as he attempted to coerce power back into the impulse drive. He siphoned everything into the engines, cutting and routing all available power in hopes of kicking off a burn. He knew he'd never be able to get the ship flying before it slammed into the ground with the explosive force of a meteor. But that was acceptable, even a slowed descent velocity would increase his odds of survival.

However, despite his efforts, the system was dark and uncooperative.

Time would soon be a nonfactor.

He glanced at the display, the surface of the planet approaching rapidly, less than thirty seconds before impact, and slammed his fist into the console, crushing the delicate flight controls and punching through the navigational system. The result was expected, but no less painful. The controls sparked and surged as he became a focal point for the current, and energy arced across his armor, injecting raw voltage into his body through the numerous breaches in his suit.

The spartan's jaw clenched and his muscles flexed, spasming under the electrified current even as the fractured display was brought back to life. The system responded to the last input logged, and the body of the seraph jerked violently, ripping the spartan from his grip and sending him hurtling across the cabin into the far wall. He spun wildly, the remnant flicker of electrical discharge locking his limbs in place as he collided with the wall at extreme velocity.

He hit the cabin wall full frontal, his fractured torso plate first striking the metal with a dull gong-like echo, before his chin followed close second. He did not so much feel as hear a _crunch_ in his chest as his neck whipped in retrograde with the force of a jiralhanae haymaker.

The ghostly wail of the seraph's spooling drive flickered across his thoughts, moments before his head snapped backward into the deck and he blacked out.

XX-XX-XX

Mcgoyle slumped tiredly onto an ammunition crate, the plated seat of his HAZOP armor ringing metallically as he parked his ass. It was the first time he had the opportunity to have a second without the anxiety inducing pressure of carrying around enough explosive ordnance to atomize an armored platoon. And he was feeling all of it.

His legs were sore, his back hurt and there was a crick in his knee that'd probably linger for a few days and he was sure he'd probably get arthritis by the time he quit this job, if he ever had the chance. But he was also still alive and so was his team, and the same could not be said for more than half the other units assigned to their special operation. Tired but alive, he could hardly complain about his middling age. After having heard the after-action report through word of mouth as it trickled through the rank and file, he had decided to embrace the little things.

The canine, exhausted, yawned loudly, his jaw opening wide enough to crack its hinges as he set his heavy helmet down beside him and slicked back his sweat soaked and unruly mane. Ten hours since operations began and they were eight hundred causalities in the hole, mostly KIA. These aliens and their weapons didn't so much as inflict wounds as guarantee fatalities, and those that survived, from what he heard, were hardly better off than the latter. The truth of the matter was rather morbid. Considering the nature of the adversary they were up against and the uniquely tenuous position of the Remnant, eight hundred was not that bad a number. Mcgoyle was honestly terrified at the thought of facing these things on an open, even field. He'd hear tale of a type of creature, massive tank-like things that traveled in pairs, shrugging off anything from small arms fire to concentrated artillery salvos, wielding enormous plasma cannons like squirt guns.

After hearing that he didn't feel so bad about his mission, and he shuddered at the thought of encountering two of those things in the narrow environment of their last mission. Considering the alien ship was now reduced to its constituent atoms, and there was no sign of any survivors, he could at least be grateful for that. But he wondered and worried all the same. He couldn't see a force as advanced as that restricted to only one ship. And he had to ask himself what would happen if more came? If their ground forces were that powerful, just how dangerous was one of their warships? Where had it even come from? How had it been destroyed? He hadn't been able to get a good look at it, and most of the vessel had probably broken up on impact, but its size…

He doubted a patrol fleet could do more than scratch the paint.

More so, the Federation patrol fleet assigned to this sector only visited the system every few weeks, relying mostly on their extensive network of sonar buoys scattered throughout their territories. And they weren't due in for at least a week from the intelligence reports.

He had many questions, but not the rank to have them answered. He was just a squad leader, a grunt, and these were the kinds of things best left to the animals in charge. Bloodmaw, the scary bastard that he was, could at least be counted on as being a rational, capable tactician and leader. Mcgoyle was confident that as long as he as in charge, things would be alright.

All he had to do was keep following orders, and make sure that the people he cared about would make it through their deployment.

The Remnant sergeant watched his team file into the barracks, trudging in lock step, shoulders hunched and weapons sagging. While they hardly looked the part for hardened revolutionaries, at the moment he was more pleased than disappointed. Thirty minutes at a hard run under enemy fire, with the worst injury being a glancing shot that only scorched the paint of Takio's thigh plate, he had chalked up their success to his off-brand luck. Although, he often wondered how long it would last.

All around him the members of his unit sat or dropped where ever space was available, piling down in small clusters like school children as they shed their equipment. Rifles dropped to the floor, followed quickly by segments of armor plate as they stripped down to their vac suits, chattering quietly amongst themselves, snipping jokes and comments that would have his wife clubbing him upside the head for allowing such foul talk as she covered the ears of their children, even though their smirks made it clear her efforts were wasted. Then of course she'd tut at him, her disappointment entirely disingenuous, and threaten him with a night on the couch though she never went through with it. He'd just sneak a conspiratorial smile to the kids and they'd come back later, ready for more mischief.

Thinking of Lena and the kids always brought a smile to his face to his face, a dopey dreamy smile that had his squad making jokes at his expense for hours after. He sighed, lingering on the memories as he tucked his hand under his armpit, feeling for the little nub of the catch release securing his armor. Finding the little series of latches, he flicked the fasteners and the heavy slab of hardened ceramic popped opened. He set his armor down at his feet and took a deep breath, glad to be rid of its cumbersome weight.

"Hey… Sarge."

Mcgoyle, still smiling, looked across his unit.

"RJ?" He prompted the other canine.

"Thanks, for getting us out of there." The plains dog answered quietly, his fur ruffled in embarrassment as the rest pf the squad leered teasingly at him.

Timid as he was, RJ, or Rico Janero, as he hated to be called by his peers, was newest to the unit, a native born Cornerian. RJ never talked about what made him decide to enlist in the Remnant, and Mcgoyle never asked. Personally though, he felt the young dog didn't have the right personality for the job, but he'd learned never to operate on assumptions. He worked on facts, and if those weren't available, then he made his decisions based on the most accurate information available.

Lanus shrugged. "It's my job."

"Technically…" Takio leaned to the side, wrapping an arm around the timid canine as she whispered loudly into his ear. "His job is to complete the mission. But don't ever tell him that."

"My _mission_…" Mcgoyle muttered grumpily, tossing a nearby blaster canister that bounced lightly of the side of her head. "…is to make sure that everyone comes back alive.

A susurrating peel of laughter sputtered from munitions crate across the barracks from a lizard cleaning the barrel of his service weapon. "You are such a dad, Sarge."

"I am not!" He barked indignantly.

"I'm just saying. You're the only squad sergeant I see who thinks water breaks in a combat zone are mandatory."

"Dehydration is not a laughing matter." He mumbled defensively, sinking inwards under the wild chuckling of his unit.

"Remember that time he crawled _eighty meters_ through a live fire zone because RJ here dropped his _favorite_ rifle."

"What… I liked that gun." RJ mumbled, glaring at Reddings as he was roped back into being the butt of the squad's jokes.

"Total dad moment." The sole feline of their unit nodded sagely as he lounged on the floor by a stack of foldable chairs they hadn't bothered to unload.

"Just accept it sarge." The lizard put down his rifle and eyed Mcgoyle sympathetically.

"You're a total dad."

Takio smirked, giving Mcgoyle a smoky stare and a coy wink. "Don't worry, Sarge. You can be my daddy anytime."

The mongoose squeaked as a mess tray flew across the room and rebounded of her forehead. The rest of the room erupted into laughter as she fell backwards melodramatically.

"Alright, that's enough of that." Mcgoyle yelled loudly over their laughter, his fur ruffled as he tried to ignore the mongoose moaning on the ground. "Does nobody care that we fought aliens today?" He was honestly surprised that they thought their old gag was more important than talking about the massive alien ship that crashed on their doorstep. Although, given the quirky band of rejects he somehow managed to amass, he supposed he shouldn't have been all that baffled.

"Well… we didn't really fight them. The other units did."

"Yeah, we just kind of snooped around their shit and ran away. I don't think we even saw one."

"After hearing about what the frontline units went through, I'm certainly not going to complain about it."

The general consensus was mild interest, to Mcgoyle's bemusement. _He_ thought it was a pretty big deal. First alien contact in their history, and these kids couldn't be bothered by the existential dread. He was almost jealous.

Almost.

XX-XX-XX

Fox inhaled deeply, the familiar scent of plastic and upholstery calming his nerves in a way that the hardest drinks never could. He smiled as he ran a hand across the instrument panel, his padded finger tips roving over the board of switches and buttons fondly as he eased into his seat with a contemplative sigh. There were a lot of memories associated with this ship, moments of victory and bitter losses, the unreplaceable rush of life and death in a dogfight, teetering on the threat of hard vacuum and fiery death at any moment. Most people wouldn't crave such things, but he'd learned a long while ago that pilots weren't like most people.

He worked the console quickly, the satisfying click of analogue controls and buttons bringing a blast of emotions, excitement and trepidation balancing narrowly in his mind as the arwing's engine stuttered into life. The cockpit shuddered, the console lighting up like little stars in a small galaxy, and he could hear the gentle hum of perfectly kept machinery under the gentle purr of the G-drive.

The vulpine looked out the canopy, the transparent Plas-TECH cover etched with display readouts and technical data. His eyes sifted naturally through the streaming log of software updates and system checks, his hands flicking switches and teasing the throttle with the flight shafts as the rail system loaded his arwing onto the mag-rail. He could hear the drive initiate startup, the rhythmic pulse of its grav-unit cycling to match the building charge of the rail system and the steady beating of his heart. Fox's snout split into a grin as the sound dropped and the arwing lurched, locked onto the rail, engine primed.

He pulled back on the controls, feeling the arwing shudder as the drive discharged, and thrust forward, sinking into the cushioning of his seat as the ship catapulted out of the Great Fox's hanger. Fox let out a whoop of excitement as he surged forwards, gliding on the boost, coasting through space, fast and free.

In the distance he could see Fortuna, a swirling backdrop of murky green and pearlescent blues framing a flight of arwings in the distance.

"Hey boss, glad you could join us." A familiar voice warbled from the speaker, distorted by interference but mostly comprehensible.

Fox fiddled with the radio, adjusting for the heavy electromagnetic charge. "Glad to be back on the wing, Miyu, though circumstances could be better." Outside the canopy he could see Miyu's arwing as it spun lazily, pulling into formation around him with the others.

"A-firm on that, Remnant seems to be pulling shit more often lately."

"Yeah, who knows what they're planning." Fay interjected, her voice coming across with more clarity as he turned the dial to the best setting.

"I hope the people of the planet are unharmed."

"I'm sure they're okay, Krys. ROB says the fireworks were far away from any cities or towns." Fox gave her his assurances, though he knew she would not be answering with a reply. For as long as he'd known her, she had been a pleasant, if somewhat distant, person. A comfortable recluse with a soft heart and strong will. Always pleasant, and always distant. Ever since he found her in that shimmering gemstone on Sauria she'd been like this. And he often wondered, if the cause was the troubles of her past, or simply a facet of her personality. Whatever the reason, she was a loyal friend and an expert pilot.

"Whatever, I just hope these bastards put up a better fight than last time." Falco grumbled; his irritable demeanor quite clear even over the erratic communications equipment. "I could use a challenge."

Fox sighed, shifting his controls towards the planet and punching the G-drive's boost system, launching himself at the front of their formation and towards whatever new danger awaited them.

"You know, Falco, one day you're going to find exactly what you're looking for. And I don't think you'll like it."

XX-XX-XX

Six woke up to the pain. It was, customarily, the first thing he recognized, before his eyes opened, before he thought to move. It was an ache, deeper, but no less familiar. He ignored the throbbing, buried it even further until it was nothing but a memory, and opened his eyes.

He looked outwards, through the shattered screen of his faceplate, darkened, like a blood tinged holo unit.

The spartan shifted slightly, and memory became reality. He felt his mouth open, whether to groan in pain or to scream, he'd never know, because he couldn't find the air to breathe. Instead he gasped, inaudibly, and shifted onto his side. He could feel a pressure rising and he fumbled with his helmet, able to disengage the seals and throw it aside moments before he vomited something dark red and smelling heavily of copper.

He could taste it on his tongue.

Blood…

But that wasn't anything new.

Noble Six moved again, this time with more success, dredging up the wherewithal to get on his knees, if not to stand. His weight was propped on an arm, balancing and teetering in place as the layered plates quivered, his strained muscles struggling to hold up his immense bulk, which was, in truth, a minor symptom to an increasingly complex problem. The crash clearly had not done his constitution, nor his endurance any favors. His other hand reached to his head sinking into the unruly mane of sweat soaked locks, the glove coming away wet with sweat and blood visible at a glance.

He dug his fingers back in, probing, his teeth clenched at the pain, parting hairs until his index brushed against something that burned. He jammed a finger down and made note. Small laceration, no fractured bone. Prognosis… survivable.A quick pat down revealed that, other than the worsening nature of the wounds prior to the impact, he could have been in a far less favorable position. Any crash you could walk away from was a good one, a step in the right direction, in all consideration.

He cast his gaze circumspectly, taking in the state of his surroundings as he retrieved his helmet, the casted slab of titanium dimpled and dented, but still functional, if no longer vacuum rated. And seeing as his shields were unlikely to come back without some significant repair, he'd take whatever protection afforded. The interior of the seraph was smaller than remembered, buckled by the impact undoubtedly. From a glance it was clear the ship's serviceability had run its course, even from the darkness of its inoperable lighting. A setback, a rather large setback, but he could manage.

He had no choice.

The spartan risked another breath, this time shallower, and was met with some moderate success. He looked to the blood on the floor, darker than arterial. Bleeding from the mouth, likely a result of internal trauma. He felt around his side, adding pressure until he felt his pain spike. Indeed, not a crack, but a fracture.

Curious. The bone structure of spartan candidates were universally reinforced by an ossified ceramic composite, supposedly unbreakable, or at least nearly so, as he discovered. Six found the capacity to shrug his sore shoulders as he climbed to his feet, taking shallow breaths as he searched the compartment, securing what little supplies he had that had not been ruined or crushed by the crash. There was little to speak of in worth, his weapons had not survived, warped out of shape or flattened, yet equally unserviceable and his last can of biofoam had been flattened under his chest, likely shortly after impact. He left the useless items where they lay, unusable and forgotten as he moved instead to study the hull, searching for a way out, thoughts of the future buried under his more immediate priorities as he felt numbly along the crumpled surface of alien metal and cleaned the hardened foam from his torso plates.

In his search he noticed a ray of light seeping from a crack in the hull. Stepping over shards of shattered debris, he lurched closer, eyeing the small breakage with some reluctance. He had found his exit vector, but it would not do his injuries any favor. Steeling himself, he placed his gauntlets back to back and slipped them through the crease, and then he pushed out. The last vestiges of his breath were forced out in a pained grunt as he exerted himself, the piercing pain in his side and strange twinge in his abdominal muscles a distracting sensation as he struggled.

Metal groaned and creaked in twisted tandem under the pressure of his augmented strength, a piercing, tortured squeal reverberating inside his broken helmet as he pushed forward. The process was slow, weakened as he was by his accumulative injuries, and he could feel his body scream at the injustice it suffered. He ignored its wails, working at the crease until it had become a gape, wide enough for him to shimmy through. And as soon as he was able, he forced himself forwards, the corners of his shoulderplates trailing sparks as they scrapped against the sides.

Then he was free, out from the confines of the ruined starship and left standing in a shallow crater rimmed by torn trees, flaming debris and smoking ruin. He stood there amid the destruction, an arm held against his side, more a sympathetic gesture on reflex than of any effort of real worth, and contemplated his unique ability to skirt the precipice of death.

It seemed his cursed luck had not yet seen itself through.

Despite what might seem his best efforts, he was firmly in the realm of the living, even though there were many such others that were not. He discarded the coming thoughts that tried to from, unable to afford even the luxury of laconic reflection. He was yet alive, and that meant he could still fight, and something deep inside him, an instinct molded by more than a decade of constant combat, told him his fighting was far from over.

Gathering himself, physically and mentally, he took stock of his situation. His HUD? Fried. Shields? Unresponsive. His weapons? Destroyed. His health? Pitched on a tight rope somewhere between a man and a ghost. This was, in all probability, the worst tactical position he had ever found himself in, and that was an impressive, if twisted, accomplishment. But it was yet still salvageable. His war was far from over.

He had to believe that.

And, with that in mind, there was really only one thing to do.

Noble Six looked up to the lip of the crater, and he began to climb.

XX-XX-XX

The darkened bulbs of the command room's light fixtures flickered, sporadically washing Bloodmaw's immense figure in a pale red hue. The detonation, while planned, had nonetheless tampered with the base's power array, an anticipated outcome, but no less an irritation. The reptilian's mouth parted slightly as a heavy exhale eased through the cragged teeth of his immense jaws, and his back rippled, the spiny scutes along his hide trembling with his distaste.

He had made his report and submitted it to the command elements outside their cluster, detailing his actions and findings, expecting a favorable return.

The dim glow of the sputtering holo unit in his claws instead reflected something far less… galvanizing. His yellow eyes scanned the digital text for the thousandth time, studying the words with furious intensity that had long since sent his staff to other areas of the complex. This was fortunate, as he was uncertain if he could have maintained his composure in the presence of his subordinates

He had been summoned to speak with the _Tribunal_.

A snakelike hiss passed his jaws, and he felt his spine shiver at the insult to his intelligence. They stated they wanted to discuss the report, but he knew better. It was neither pride nor arrogance when he admitted that their cleverness was far lower than they perceived. He had long since been able to pick apart their maneuverings.

They were preparing to remove him from his position, likely to supplant the credit for _his _achievements. It was _his _decisive action that led to the capture of technologies, _his _planning that assured the victory against a more advanced adversary.

His pace quickened, claws long since marking a trail of his steps as he circled the chamber around the massive holo unit. His brooding deepened, and he mused on his discoveries. He knew, deep in his mind, that he could not tolerate the fallings of the Tribunal any longer. Ten years and two wars, lives lost in pointless battles and skirmishes with no tactical gain, often for either party. True, his hatred for the elites of Cornerian society was unabated, but he had little quarrel with the common people once he finally exacted his blood price. He was not without reason. Victory might not be possible, but he'd take reparations, better conditions for their people, executive power in their own affairs, and criminal sentencing for the corrupt officials in Federation office.

Years of war had long since honed his relentless hatred into a more refined beast. He still had plans to kill, but he had no desire to become more of a butcher than he already was.

If he continued to follow the Tribunal, he'd fall farther than he could ever hope to recover. Action need be taken, he just did not know yet what action was needed. Bloodmaw grunted and flicked the holo device closed, standing in the flickering emergency lights silent and unmoving.

A low rush of sound brushed his hearing and he glanced to the opening door, watching as his second in command entered slowly. The simian seemed reluctant to approach, understandable given his temperament, and Bloodmaw made no move to correct this.

"_Arkwright…" _He hissed his greeting in a low voice, turning his full stature towards the ape who suddenly froze in place. Bloodmaw watched, his crocodilian maw curling slightly in amusement as the primate's throat bobbed noticeably.

"General…" The ape greeted in kind, his voice low and deferential. In his paw he held a slate that he extended in offering and his inflection hardly quavered as he continued. "A report from the scouts sir, freshly arrived. I thought the information pertinent enough to disturb your planning, Sir."

"_Hmm…" _Bloodmaw growled musingly as he plucked the data device from his subordinate's grip, uncaring of the simian's flinch as he scanned the information that had been complied for his attention.

And his attention it did indeed garner.

"_Another vessel…"_ The Remnant General spoke softly to himself, contemplatively. The report and corroborative images detailed the findings articulately and professionally. He glanced up, ignoring the fact Arkwright was unable to meet his gaze. _"Which unit submitted this report, Colonel?"_

"Leo's unit, the 5th, Sir."

Bloodmaw nodded sagely. _"See that they receive a commendation and prepare…"_ He paused, thinking for a moment. _"A probing force should be sufficient."_

Arkwright hesitated.

"_Something the matter, Colonel?"_

The simian looked up, seemingly conflicted. 'It's… just that… Sir… Do you not want to secure the site of this ship as well?"

Bloodmaw only glanced briefly once more at the report. The ship was far more damaged and visibly technologically inferior to the first. And what's more, he was done doing the Tribunal's work for them. _"No need, colonel. Send the 3__rd__ regiment and have them return after a brief probing skirmish, let the Federation think we were unable to acquire anything from either site. They may do what they will with the dregs. I care not."_

He turned away, and the lights in the room cut leaving it in pitch darkness for only a moment before they returned bright and yellow, banishing the glower of the emergency bulbs. The table holo unit sputtered into life and he focused on the display. _"While the 3__rd__ engages recall all exterior units and make preparations for mothball."_

"Sir?" Arkwright's voice bubbled in confusion.

"_We have finished here, Arkwright." _Bloodmaw grunted in answer, his eyes intent now on the unit in his palm. He closed his fist, and the machine crumpled quietly in his grip.

"_I believe it is time is time I return to face the Tribunal."_

_XX-XX-XX_

Fox jumped, his boots landing wetly on the muddy forest floor. He looked down and lifted one, groaning in disgust at the sickening _squelch_ as the mud tried to suck his foot down. He looked almost longingly to his arwing parked next to him, remembering why he usually hated taking to the ground on missions. Such assignments usually were not as… distinguished.

"You know…" Falco's voice carried over from across the glade, the avian standing on the wing of his ship and staring quite unimpressed at the boggy floor below. "You always seem to take me to the most… interesting places, McCloud."

"I've seen your room, Beakbutt." Miyu called facetiously from a little farther ahead, at the start of the path.

"It ain't much better."

Fay giggled beside her, before blushing apologetically at Falco's dark glare.

Fox watched as the bird dropped down with a huff, and a groan as he sunk a layer into the ground. "Why can't these things ever happen at the beaches." The bird lamented, brushing leaves off his coat as he shuffled through the mud, bumping purposefully into Fox as he passed, mumbling under his breath.

"I don't know… maybe some nice beach babes, a little sun. Not too much to ask."

The vulpine let it go with a roll of his eyes as he joined the party up ahead, finding Krystal at the front, her staff extended and planted firmly into the wet dirt. Ironically enough, the aristocratic vixen seemed quite at home in the marshland and there was a soft smile on her snout as she watched the leaves dance on their branches. Fox seemed to recall, dredging up a blurred memory of a night out on the streets of Corneria, that her home was not all that different from places such as this, certainly a takeaway from what he had expected, given her often blue-blooded bearing.

As always, she seemed to know when he was thinking about her, and she turned to look his way, nodding regally in greeting, a small smile still centered on her stately countenance.

Fox returned the gesture as he activated his wrist mounted tac-unit and went to business. "Alright, we know from our flyby that the wreckage of some sort of ship is about two kilometers southeast of our position, and given that huge crater eight kilometers northwest, that seems to be our only real lead. Contact with the local garrison is still fucked by the EM distortion, but hopefully Slip can get a clear connection before we might need their assistance, and he's prepared to offer some aerial support if things take a turn."

"Great." Falco muttered sourly; his dissent a constant, familiar presence that was like this time often overlooked.

Fox might have been upset if he thought there was any real malignance between the two, but like always, it was just Falco being Falco. The bird always liked to complain, until he needed a quick patch on his ship or his guns weren't shooting straight. And then it was all _buddy_ this and _friend_ that. Something that was always good for a laugh, but not really all that important at the moment.

"We know from the drone footage that there was Remnant activity near the crash site command designated Alpha, and considering its now a crater roughly the size of a Federation Fleet command cruiser, it's clear that they didn't want us finding whatever landed there. So, if we want to get paid, we're going to have to make sure this particular ship is still sitting around when the fleet arrives."

Fox swiped up on his device and the projector expanded, a square cut of the terrain around their objective hovering in the air above him, and the team stepped closer as he detailed his plan. "So, we can safely assume that Remnant forces will be at or approaching crash site beta when we arrive. By then Slip will have made it to the garrison and spoken with the commander, so we can at least expect heavy cover on his return. Until then, we'll have to hold ground."

He pulled his paw in, narrowing the image until it was focused around the immediate area surrounding the strange ship. "Now, considering the terrain, Miyu will be coordinating the frontal approach. Fay, Falco, you'll be her support."

"Sure."

"Of course!"

He nodded to the pair. "Krystal and I will pull rearguard, planting motion sensors and IFF trip mines on the approach in case we make it to the site first. In that case, Miyu, I'll need you to secure an entrance and wait for us to rendezvous. And remember to be careful, this vessel is easily the size of a battleship, and that means a lot of crew. We don't know who this ship belongs to or if any of them are still alive, but I don't want any incidents. ID your targets before firing."

"Always boss." The feline grinned. "When have I ever let ya down huh?"

"There's always a first, Miyu." He trusted her implicitly of course, and with her background in special forces he could confidently admit that she was probably the better of them all when it came to groundside missions, but he was the captain for a reason, and sometimes he couldn't play around.

Thankfully, she understood, and offered a thoughtful nod.

Fox ran everything through his head one last time, making sure that he had hit all the marks he wanted to hit and that there was nothing he had forgot. Satisfied, he placed the waypoint on the squad tactical network and shut down the emitter for his comm bracer. "But remember, above all, be careful. I'd rather not have to go talent scouting."

"Tch… like you'd ever find anyone that could replace me." Falco scoffed, before gesturing for Miyu to get moving. "Well come on then pussycat, we're burning daylight. And there's no way in nine hells I'll walk around this shit in the dark"

They walked into the brush ahead, a confident lynx, her faithful canine friend, and one surly pheasant. Their rapport, as churlish as it was comforting, dampened under the leaves and vines of the dense undergrowth as they went ahead, until he was left with silence. The quiet, however, was not soothing, bringing with it thoughts that always lingered, concerns about the involvedness of his planning and gnawing worry for his crew. They'd been through thick and thin, hell and water, and while they always came out on top, that didn't stop him from fretting. He was a worrier, just like his dad. He liked to think it was a part of the McCloud brand, right beside their penchant for excellence.

So, running the plan one last time through his head… again, he shifted some of his mental processing power to his own task, noticing as well, something that had just occurred to him. It was odd, usually Krystal had something to say, however minute and enigmatic. She was good at reading people, and often made comments that could be reassuring or disparaging dependent on wherever her mood left her and her current opinion of the person question. Her silence, while a frequent state for her disposition, was in this instance unusual.

Fox thumbed open a small case on his utility belt, popping out half a dozen IFF mines, the miniaturized, circular anti-personnel devices fitting comfortably in the palm of his hand as he shifted attention curiously. Krystal had not moved, her stance alert and her ears swiveling like radar dishes as her eyes drifted, sifting carefully through the trees. The vulpine paused, his heart thumping a little louder, and took a deep breath through his nose. He sifted through the scents, his other paw lowering to sit on the grip of his sidearm.

"Do you sense anything?" While he was in no means inept at sniffing out trouble, owed more to his species than of any refined skill, Krystal's abilities were of a more… mystical disposition. While not quite a mind reader, she was not all that far off, and she had outed ambushes and looming threats on numerous occasions. So, when she was concerned by something he didn't notice, he damn well paid attention.

The cerulean vixen did not answer quickly, her expression distracted and her posture defensive, clawed fingers curling tighter around the haft of her staff, the others idly teasing the hem of her leather coat. "I… am not sure." Her voice carried softly over the still air, stiff and cultured. Her left ear flicked, and she stopped moving entirely, so still that she seemed to slip out of phase with the world around her, before the fur visible around the collar of her jacket ruffled slightly. "I had thought…" She shook her head slowly, the unease in her voice lessening but not disappearing. "No. It must have been nothing."

Fox, his paw tight around his holstered blaster, eased off only slightly, dropping a sigh as he sagged with loosened muscles. He had not fancied the idea of being ambushed while his team was split. "Alright, if you say so." He sniffed again, if only for his own comfort, and like before, could only make out the dark tones of wet soil and the trace of rain that must have fallen the day before. The smell of dirt was powerful, and slightly coppery, but did not stand out in an alarming fashion.

He rolled his shoulder, hoping to ease the tension in his upper back, and gestured forward. "We should get moving. I'd like to be in position before Falco starts complaining."

Krystal was slow to nod, he noticed, her posture never entirely relaxing, but she eventually did fall into step beside him, procuring her own assortment of mines and motion sensors. Between the pair of them they should have all the most obvious, and even some of the more obscure approaches to the ship mined and secured, likely before Miyu led the others to their places. Foxes were fast, and quite at home in an environment like this. Even keeping an eye out for Remnant guerilla tactics they'd make excellent time loping through the underbrush.

Fox looked to her once more, sharing a small smile, before they leaped into the brush, vanishing stealthily into the collage of deep green and dark browns.

XX-XX-XX

Six sunk back against the tree trunk, dropping an arm from the blade sheathed into the shoulder strap on his Mjolnir, the blade hanging to its straps by a thread and the occasional prayer. The spartan took a shallow breath, easing out air with a short hiss that sputtered rather nonthreateningly. He tried to feel relief but exhaustion was the only feeling he seemed to still possess.

Climbing from the wreck and maneuvering through the dense forestland had not done his fractured ribs any favors, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain steady breathing. Fatigue was taking its due at last, even his spartan constitution could not endure the weeks of constant running and fighting on minimal caloric diet and sporadic hydration, beset as well by bruises and deeper wounds seemingly at every turn. His body was starting to openly revolt, and he knew that soon he would not be able to simply ignore his worsening condition. If this place did not kill him soon, its damn inhabitants would do the job for it. Blood loss was beginning to impair his basic functions and make a mockery of his skills, to the point where he had almost not heard the howl of overhead aircraft closing in on his location.

He'd took to ground immediately, scrubbing down his armor with native soil and plant life, dousing the cloying scent of blood as best he could and hoping to obscure the dulled, dark colors of his armor that did not match the terrain. In a rush he had picked a tree and settled in place, hoping that his caution was unwarranted.

But, as always, prudence made itself both friend and enemy. His makeshift camouflage was adequate but the place he had chosen to take shelter had been, in a cruel but familiar twist of fate, in the direct path of an approaching party. The voices were alien, not of the Covenant, and he was simultaneously relieved and concerned. The Covenant, for all their strength, were familiar, and he had experience in evading capture.

The aliens of this world, wherever it may be, were an as of yet incalculable variable. And to further complicate the matter his suit was offline, meaning the language matrix was not gathering data, and he was far from composing a viable translation.

So, when their party had stopped, less than three meters from where he made his hiding place, he had been prepared for the worst. Killing this group would not have been an impossibility, though his wounds were proving to be an escalating disadvantage. Confident that he still had the strength to take on a small party of five, he did not have the capacity left to do it quietly. Even so, he was off put by the difference. They appeared to be a separate entity, bearing neither the equipment or the marking of the previous force. And the… animals forming the squad were not of the same breed as those he had studied in the Covenant warship.

A new faction?

Or simply a different organization?

These were questions he didn't have the luxury to dwell upon. Neither did he technically have the luxury to sit in one place. He was bleeding to death, and he did not have the means to staunch the flow. He needed to reach the wreckage of the ship and hope it still had some medical supplies, and weapons, though he did not put much faith in that.

Suppressing a groan, he pushed aside his hide, a quickly woven mesh of branches and leaves, and took a minute to stand up. His joints ached and he felt a fresh hotness trickle down his side. But it had been long enough that the aliens should be at a safe distance, though the direction they were moving did not entail in him a sense of relief.

One could not hide the metal corpse of a heavy cruiser, and even from his crash he had seen the broken back of the dead warship jutting from top of the canopy, leaking wisps of blackened smoke far above the tree line. It was not something forgotten. It was a beacon, a landmark, and it would not be spared from idle hands.

Noble Six took a step forward, regaining his balance and a modicum of his strength and prepared to follow in the footsteps of aliens, something he appeared to be doing with increasing frequency. The future was a muddled mess for the tired warrior B312 and he did not yet know what it was he wanted in the end, be it a quick death or one last push. Events did not seem to favor either outcome, and he wondered what truly lay at the end of this spiraling road.

Whatever it may be, to reach it he had to keep on moving. He had no intention of dying outside of combat. Gritting his teeth, he kneeled to the pit he had dug earlier and shoveled a clump of earth and stuffed his newly reopened wound. The mixture was some sort of native clay, one he hoped held similar medicinal properties as those he had encountered before. It was no biofoam, but at least he wouldn't be leaking the scent of his blood all over the damn forest. He had a theory that while untested, seemed only logical. It was likely these animals shared the same olfactory senses as their more unevolved relations, and he had heard that animals from the canid and feline species could smell out prey from miles away.

He'd rather not be ousted so embarrassingly.

The spartan-III allowed a moment to recuperate, checking his wounds and gathering the tattered elements of his stamina, before he followed after the vanished party of natives. As much as he disliked the idea, he was not sure how long he would last if he was forced to take a more circuitous path to his destination.

Six did not break into a run but instead a steady walk. It would be slower, but far less energy exhaustive. And right now, he needed every shred of energy he had left. After all, apparently there was someone else still alive out here, and that was a mystery he had every intention to solve.

It was the only real goal he had left.


End file.
